


What We Lose (is part of us)

by FyreFlyte



Category: Star Trek Into Darkness - Fandom, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Missing Scene, Nightmares, Post Star Trek: Into Darkness, Post-Movie(s), Rebuilding, Recovery, STID, San Francisco was kind of destroyed, Star Trek: Into Darkness, Star Trek: Into Darkness Spoilers, Starfleet, Tarsus IV, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2017-12-12 08:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 36,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FyreFlyte/pseuds/FyreFlyte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>STID SPOILERS. </p><p>Healing takes time, and the road to recovery is never easy. The aftermath of Star Trek: Into Darkness.</p><p>Part 14: "The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.” ― J.R.R. Tolkien</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_He doesn’t know if it’s going to work._

 

Sickbay’s a mess, filled far past capacity because the _Enterprise_ isn’t a warship, goddammit, and wasn’t built to handle the casualties of a full-out _attack._ Leonard’s in five places at once, shouting orders to M’Benga and the nurses and trying to not let Jim’s cryo tube get out of his sight for more than a few moments at a time. He doesn’t know what’s going on outside Sickbay, but at least it doesn’t feel like they’re falling anymore. Security’s watching the soldier they unfroze, who’s currently doped up on more sedatives than Leonard’s ever given anyone in his life, because they’ve all seen what Khan can do and they’re not taking any chances with his crew.

 

“Doctor McCoy!” Sulu’s voice barks over the nearest communications unit. Leonard practically vaults over a gurney to reach the button.

 

“That hobgoblin had better have Khan alive,” McCoy snaps, because dammit, Jim’s frozen and dead and who knows how much time they still have –

 

“They’re transporting directly to sickbay now.”

 

Leonard snatches the nearest IV drip as the transporter activates near Jim’s pod. The second Khan materializes – out cold on the floor, and damn, he never wants to be on the receiving end of Vulcan rage – Leonard jabs him with a hypo of the strongest sedative he has. He ignores Spock and Uhura entirely as he draws two samples of Khan’s blood and then inserts an IV drip with more sedatives. He’s taking absolutely no chances with Khan’s altered physiology.

 

When he looks up, Uhura’s gone – probably off to the bridge to hail Starfleet and find out what the hell’s going on – and Spock is inspecting the cooing tribble on his desk. Leonard falters. Spock looks exhausted, his uniform and hair uncharacteristically out of place, and there’s a shattered look in his eyes when he glances at Jim’s cryo tube.

 

Goddammit.

 

“This is illegal,” Leonard says, fingers hovering over the buttons that will defrost Jim, and fuck it all, he’s said it.

 

This is illegal.

 

It’s an untested, unknown _thing_ that he’s about to put in Jim. It’s Khan’s blood, but it’s something else too, and no one knows why or how it made a goddamn tribble come back to life. There could be horrible side effects. It might not even work.

 

He’s about to break a few dozen medical and Starfleet codes, and he’s terrified that it _won’t work_.

 

“Doctor.”

 

Leonard realizes his hands are shaking _._ He puts Khan’s blood down and drags his hands over his face, fighting back the bizarre urge to laugh. He can’t fall apart now, because _Jim._ Spock steps to Leonard’s side and hesitates for a fraction of a second before placing his too-warm hand on Leonard’s shoulder. Which is weird.

 

“In very rare cases, Doctor,” Spock says quietly, “The needs of the one are necessary to ensure the well-being of the many. This – appears to be such a case.”

 

Leonard stares at Spock for a full thirty seconds.

 

“Goddammit, you pointy-eared hobgoblin, it’s not that hard to say ‘I’ve got your back if this all goes to shit,’” Leonard growls, but Spock’s support warms him enough to jar him out of his panic. He punches in his medical override and watches the cryo tube start to defrost.

 

Khan’s blood feels heavy in his hands. It might not work, but goddammit – Leonard has to try.

 


	2. Chapter 2

_Acting Captain’s Log, Stardate 2259.70:_

Nearly one third of San Francisco has been damaged by the _U.S.S. Vengeance._ One hundred and thirty-two buildings were completely destroyed. Another fifty-six were severely damaged. The death toll was last reported at approximately 393,000 in San Francisco alone and is still climbing steadily.

 

The _Enterprise_ lost 231 of its 428 crew members. This is 103 more losses than the _Enterprise_ sustained during the fight with Nero.

 

The damage caused by the _U.S.S. Vengeance_ is severe. The _Enterprise_ does not currently have the ability to dock in space. 8.2 hours ago, shuttles delivered 57 of Starfleet’s best technicians to the _Enterprise_ to administer urgent repairs. A second shuttle will deploy within the next two hours to tow the _Enterprise_ to space dock.

 

The fugitive Khan, who is known on Earth as Commander John Harrison, has been transported to Starfleet command along with the 72 members of his crew. All have been encased in cryo tubes until further notice.

 

Dr. McCoy has synthesized a serum to repair the radiation damage Captain Kirk sustained in the warp core reactor. When first administered, this caused the Captain to develop a fever of 40.4 degrees Celsius. Further complications forced Dr. McCoy to put the Captain into an induced coma. Consequences of such an action are currently unclear. Both were taken by shuttle to Starfleet Medical 7.1 hours ago. There has been no word from Dr. McCoy since.

 

The main bridge crew of the _Enterprise_ has not slept in approximately 36 hours. They have resisted all orders to partake of rest and refuse to do so until the _Enterprise_ has safely docked.

 

Such refusal, though illogical, is nevertheless commendable. Their actions throughout this mission have been exemplary and are worthy of Starfleet’s highest honors.

 

* * *

 

“Spock.”

 

Dr. McCoy’s voice sounds gravelly with fatigue, and Spock immediately vacates the waiting room chair to follow the doctor into the ICU portion of Starfleet’s hospital. The doctor looks unsteady on his feet, his face pale in the low lighting of the corridors. It is 0322 and the ICU is mostly silent.

 

“Thanks for volunteering to stay up,” McCoy says gruffly as he stops outside a plain door. The window to the left has been obscured by white curtains.

 

“It was logical,” Spock replies as McCoy enters his medical code. “You have not rested in approximately 42 hours, and as Vulcans do not require as much sleep as humans, I am perfectly capable of monitoring the Captain’s vitals until you awaken.”

 

“Logical my ass,” McCoy mutters, and pushes open the door. Spock follows. Stops. And tries not to stare.

 

Jim looks frail on the hospital bed, his face turned slightly away from the door. There are dark bruises along his cheekbone. His skin has a faint yellow, sickening tint to it, reminding Spock forcefully of the yellow tint on Jim’s face in the radiation chamber. There are charts, graphs, and monitors hooked up in a myriad of places. He is completely still.

 

“His fever dropped to 37 degrees about forty-five minutes ago,” McCoy says, sitting heavily on the cot set up in the corner of the room. “This is the most stable he’s been in hours. His lungs and heart are functioning on their own and he’s got fairly normal brain activity for an induced coma. But there’s a helluva lot of cell damage that’s still being repaired. And the goddamn fool had five broken ribs and internal bleeding _before_ he got himself irradiated.” He sighs and clumsily pulls off his boots, words slurring as he slumps back in the cot. “It’s gonna be a long recovery.”

 

The unspoken _if it works_ still hangs in the air. Spock tears his eyes away from Jim to address McCoy.

 

“I will wake you if his condition changes. You should sleep, doctor.”

 

McCoy is already asleep.

 

Spock drags the one chair in the room to Jim’s bedside. He sits so he can see Jim’s face and sets his communicator to silent. Jim will not wake, but there is no sense in waking Dr. McCoy.

 

The doctor begins to snore. Spock’s Vulcan hearing can still pick up the sound of Jim’s lighter, slower breaths.

 

He sits there, motionless, and listens to Jim breathe as daylight slowly dawns.


	3. Chapter 3

There’s something really fucking weird going on, and he doesn’t know why, how, or what.

 

But it’s wrong.

 

He doesn’t know much, but he gets that. Somehow, _this_ – existing – is wrong. He’s aware that he exists, but he doesn’t know why that feels wrong or how he knows what a “wrong feeling” feels like or what his own name is and how does he even know he should _have_ a name and something else is building now, something he doesn’t like, and he’s scared but how the fuck does he even know that and –

 

It floods him.

 

_“I love you – sweetheart, I love you so much – ”_

 

_“Your mom’s not here, she’s off planet and she won’t be back for God knows how long – ”_

Things he knew

_“I’m leaving. I can’t – I just can’t fucking_ take this _anymore, not for you, not even for mom – ”_

_“Citizen, pull over.”_

_“…survival depends on drastic measures….I have no alternative but to sentence you to death. Your execution is so ordered – ”_

_“For a second I thought you were just a dumb hick who only has sex with farm animals.”_

Slotting into place

 

_“I dare you to do better.”_

_“Ex-wife took the whole goddamn planet in the divorce. All I’ve got left is my bones.”_

_“The purpose is to experience fear. Fear in the face of certain death. To accept that fear, and maintain control of oneself and one's crew.”_

_“I have been and always shall be your friend.”_

_“James Kirk was a great man. But that was another life.”_

Putting him back together

 

_“They’re going to take the Enterprise away from you.”_

_“It’s gonna be okay, son.” (It’s not)_

_“My crew is my family. Is there anything you would not do for your family?”_

_“If you beam me out, he dies! I can de-activate it!”_

In pieces

 

_“Well, that’s quite an apology. But if it’s any consolation, I had no intention of sparing your crew.”_

_“I have upheld your terms. Now you must uphold mine.”_

_“We can’t go in there, we’ll die!”(Like that means something, like it will stop him)_

_(Panic reality he’s never been good at facing reality and oh it hurts)_

_“I do not know. Right now I am failing.”_

_“Because I am your friend.”_

 

 

He has no body, but he’s gasping, sobbing, reeling in the face of _this_ , of _himself_. His name is James Tiberius Kirk.

 

He has a name.

 

Against all odds, against all logic, he’s _here,_ and if this is death it’s fucking confusing, and maybe a little strange too, because he feels like he’s fading but he can’t fade if he wasn’t there to begin with and maybe it’s not fading, exactly, because it feels different, like something he should be able to name but can’t because he’s tired, so very, very tired…

 

He fades.

 

* * *

 

When he comes to again, things make more sense.

 

He knows his name. He knows who he is. And he has a body.

 

His limbs feel heavy and he has no energy. His head hurts. Maybe the rest of him hurts too, but he doesn’t have the strength to move and find out. He’s lying supine on something a bit too hard to be comfortable, and the sheets itch.

 

He can’t hear or feel the engine, so fuck, he’s in a hospital.

 

Can’t hear or feel the engine.

 

The _Enterprise._

 

He drags his eyes open in confused alarm, blinking weakly against the light. He gets a fuzzy glimpse of a blank wall before a very concerned doctor intrudes on his line of sight.

 

“Oh don’t be so melodramatic, you were just _barely_ dead,” Bones says gruffly, and Jim can instantly tell that his best friend is exhausted. He doesn’t know where he is – he guesses Starfleet headquarters – but it must have been a day at least, and Bones doesn’t sleep when Jim’s in danger – “It was the transfusion that really took its toll – you’ve been in a coma for two weeks” – and, wow, okay, two weeks. That answers that question.

 

“Transfusion?” Jim asks hoarsely. His throat hurts. His brain’s having trouble following Bones’s rapid-fire explanations.

 

“All your cells were irradiated, we didn’t have much choice,” Bones replies grimly. Radiation. Jim remembers _that_. But a transfusion can only mean…there’s only one person…“I synthesized a serum from Khan’s super-blood to reverse the effects. Are you feeling homicidal? Power-mad? Despotic?”

 

“No more than usual,” he manages, and would have sat up in alarm if he wasn’t so exhausted. Things are quickly slotting back into place, his lucidity increasing the longer he keeps his eyes open. “Khan?”

 

“In custody,” Bones assures him, which – wow.

 

“You went after him.”

 

“Well, I didn’t,” Bones admits, and he steps back so Jim can see his First Officer hovering near the end of the bed.

 

It hits him, then – Spock’s face behind a pane of glass, fading in and out of focus because his eyes are burning, dry and red and failing, and there are tears in his Spock’s eyes and that’s impossible, Vulcans don’t cry, but Jim will never get to call him on it, there’s no time, he can’t breathe, speaking _hurts_ –

 

He stops himself.

 

Later. There will be time to deal with the past after he deals with the present. Spock steps forward, hands clasped behind his back and warmth in his eyes.

 

“You saved my life,” Jim says.

 

“Y’know, Uhura and I might’ve had something to do with it too,” Bones growls from Jim’s other shoulder, and he bites back a laugh. Bones will always try to save him – that isn’t a surprise. But Spock once choked him over a console and submitted a report behind his back, and a few weeks ago would have abandoned him in a volcano if their positions had been reversed.

 

Spock looks at him earnestly.

 

“You saved my life, Jim, as well as the lives of – ”

 

“Spock.” He doesn’t need to hear it. He’s never been one for mushy expressions of sentiment, because they aren’t necessary. Especially not now. And… “Hang on, did you just call me Jim?” Spock raises an eyebrow.

 

“Captain, if you are experiencing difficulty hearing, I would advise – ”

 

He can’t help it. The laughter spills out of him until there are tears in his eyes, and even though his body aches it feels good, he hasn’t laughed in what feels like forever, and Spock merely clasps his hands and looks inordinately pleased with himself and Bones tries to subtly wipe his eyes and fuck he’s a mess, they’re all a mess, but this is _right_.

 

Their world might have fallen apart, but this, at least, finally feels right.


	4. Chapter 4

Nyota’s not positive, but she’s pretty sure that the ICU in a hospital is supposed to be relatively quiet. Muffled shouting isn’t what one expects to hear around critically ill patients, but she’s been on the _Enterprise_ long enough to recognize and be familiar with the CMO’s vehement tones. The door in the corridor across from Kirk’s room swings slightly ajar, and she hesitates outside.

 

“ – _no,_ for the last time, Admiral! He isn’t ready!”

 

McCoy sounds furious. She pokes her head in cautiously and sees him pacing around an empty room, communicator held to his ear.

 

“For the love of – I _understand_ that you need to debrief him, but I don’t think _you_ understand that this man’s entire body was subjected to intense radiation that he shouldn’t have survived, and he’s in no shape to – ” he catches sight of her in the doorway and breaks off, taking a deep breath. “With respect, _sir_ , it’s my professional opinion that Captain Kirk is _not_ well enough for a formal debriefing, and that’s final.”

 

He snaps the communicator shut with a growl a few moments later, muttering “asshole.”

 

He looks at her and jabs his finger at the closed device.

 

“Jim’s awake for ten minutes, and these medal-toting idiots think that means he’s ready for a formal debriefing! Jesus,” he runs his hand through his hair and scowls as he puts the communicator away. “He doesn’t even _know_ what happened after he crawled into that goddamn radiation chamber, and I don’t want to tell him until – ”

 

The communicator chirps.

 

“ _For the love of_ – !” McCoy snarls as he flips it open. “One second,” he barks, and looks at her beseechingly. “Would you head in there and keep an eye on Jim? This could be a while.”

 

“Try not murder anyone, Leonard,” Nyota says dryly as she shuts the door behind her. McCoy’s answer gets lost behind the closed door. She turns around and sees Scotty standing outside Jim’s room with both eyebrows raised.

 

“Everythin’ all right in there?” he asks.

 

“Starfleet wants to debrief Kirk,” Nyota replies, wincing as McCoy’s muffled voice escalates in volume from behind her. “Dr. McCoy – ah – doesn’t agree.”

 

“Ay, and probably with good reason,” Scotty frowns. “My debriefin’ was the toughest I’ve ever had, and that includes the one after the fiasco with Nero. The lad can’t be ready for that yet.”

 

“He might not have a choice,” Nyota says grimly, keying in the code to open Kirk’s door. Starfleet is still scrambling to piece together the extent of Marcus’s corruption. As of yet, Khan’s true identity remains highly classified knowledge, but there are plenty of rumors circulating among the press. “They need a statement from him before he talks too much with anyone else, including us.”

 

Kirk’s sleeping when they enter, half-curled on his side, the blankets draped around his waist.

 

“Are we sure he woke up?” Scotty asks in a low voice. Nyota looks at him in surprise and realizes he’s paler than normal. “It’s just, tha last time I saw him, ‘e looked just like this.”

 

Nyota shivers. The two weeks Kirk spent in a coma had been touch-and-go; at one point the doctors weren’t sure if he’d lost his memory or not. She touches Scotty’s arm and pulls up two chairs.

 

“Spock saw him yesterday and said he looked ‘remarkably well, given the circumstances.’ He remembers everyone and everything that happened, from what McCoy can tell,” she says, as much for Scotty’s peace of mind as her own. It’s unnerving to see Kirk so still.

 

“The official story is that he wasn’t – ye know – dead,” Scotty says haltingly. “I think the top brass knows, but they’re keepin’ this under wraps.”

 

Nyota does know – Spock spent (is still spending) hours locked in debriefing rooms with Admirals Komack, Archer, and Barnett, and as soon as Jim was stable enough, McCoy was called in as well. She doesn’t know how much the Admirals know about Khan’s blood and its apparent life-saving properties, but whether they know or not, Khan and his crew are still locked away under high security. “John Harrison” was announced dead weeks ago.

 

“I don’t think Jim even knows he was clinically dead,” Nyota says.

 

“Well, no, who wants to hear that when they first wake up?” Scotty says, and looks askance at her. As if on cue, Kirk shifts slightly and turns his head towards their voices, eyelids fluttering. Nyota and Scotty immediately shift their attention to the bed as Jim pulls his eyes open.

 

“Hey,” Nyota whispers, throat suddenly tight. It’s absurdly relieving to see those blue eyes, even if they’re clouded with fatigue. Beside her, Scotty braces his hands on his knees.

 

Kirk blinks at them for a moment before finding his voice.

 

“Hi,” he croaks. It comes out scratchy, but Nyota’s face splits into a grin.

 

“Hi yourself,” she says fondly, and glances at his bedside tray. “Do you need water?” Jim nods, so she retrieves a plastic cup and straw, holding it to his lips so he can drink. He manages a few sips before he breaks off, blushing faintly with embarrassment.

 

“I’ll have ye know,” Scotty speaks up, looking at Jim seriously, “That the _Enterprise_ is full of Starfleet technicians who probably don’t know what the hell they’re doing, and Starfleet won’t let me up there ta oversee repairs until tomorrow.” He sounds suitably indignant, and Nyota bites back a laugh as Kirk’s lips twitch.

 

“You’ll fix her, right?” he asks, and despite his light tone, Scotty sobers immediately.

 

“Absolutely, sir.”

 

“Good.” Jim grunts slightly and slowly shifts himself to his back, one hand groping the edge of the bed. “Does this thing have…?”

 

“Got it,” Nyota says, locating the button necessary to put the bed on an incline. “McCoy’s not going to kill me for this, right?”

 

“Nah, he’ll kill me first,” Kirk quips, and she sighs but raises him just enough so he can see them without craning his neck. He blinks unsteadily at the change in elevation.

 

“Ye okay there, lad?” Scotty asks uncertainly. Nyota glances at him in concern – he’s twisting his hands together in his lap.

 

“M’fine,” Kirk says. He pins both of them with bright, slightly glassy eyes, and takes a deep breath. “I can’t – I can’t thank you two enough for everything you did up there. Without both of you I’d be dead. We all would.”

 

“Laddie…” Scotty swallows, apparently at a loss for words. Nyota’s mind flashes unpleasantly to the image of Kirk slumped against the glass door of the radiation chamber, Spock’s head bowed before it in grief. She blinks against the sudden moisture in her eyes and carefully takes one of Kirk’s hands in hers.

 

“And we wouldn’t be here without you, Captain,” she says gently. “So thank you.”

 

“Ha,” Jim crows weakly. “I knew you kept me around for a reason.”

 

She’s saved responding by the door, which swings open to admit a haggard Leonard McCoy. He stops short at the sight of Kirk and Nyota holding hands.

 

“Don’t make me tattle to the hobgoblin,” he warns, and Nyota rolls her eyes and swats him as he passes her on his way to Jim’s bedside. “How’re ya doin’, kid?”

 

“Feel fuzzy,” Jim complains, and Leonard snorts.

 

“Yeah, you’re on pain meds and you need more rest. Go to sleep.” Jim frowns, narrowing his eyes at McCoy. The doctor looks a little worse for wear, his hair askew and dark circles beneath his eyes.

 

“You’ve been working too many shifts,” Jim accuses, breaking off with a huge yawn. He waves his hand vaguely at Nyota and Scotty. “Make him sleep. Tha’s an order.”

 

“Ay, Captain,” Scotty grins with a salute. McCoy rolls his eyes.

 

“Go to sleep, Jim,” he says, lowering the bed back to its neutral position. Kirk mumbles something unintelligible, his eyes slipping shut. “Infant,” Leonard says fondly. He drags a hand through his hair and turns wearily to Nyota and Scotty, glancing at Kirk’s vitals to make sure he’s actually fallen asleep. “You didn’t tell him anything important, did you?” he asks in a low voice.

 

“No.” Nyota shakes her head. “He didn’t stay awake long enough to ask.”

 

“Good.” Leonard looks pensive. “I don’t want to tell him much until he’s stronger, but he’s going to get debriefed within a day or two. I don’t know if it’s better to answer his questions now or wait until Starfleet’s asked theirs.” He sighs. “Either way, it won’t be pleasant. Goddamn admirals.”

 

“We’ll help him through it,” Nyota insists soothingly, and gives Leonard a once-over. “Jim’s right – you haven’t been taking care of yourself, doctor.”

 

“I’ll watch tha Captain,” Scotty volunteers. “Get some sleep.”

 

“Alright, Jesus, I’m going,” Leonard grumbles, glancing one more time at Jim’s vitals before turning around, “Since apparently y’all’ve got medical degrees now.”

 

Nyota laughs quietly to herself as she follows him out the door, but she can’t shake the feeling that Leonard’s right. Jim’s debriefing won’t be pleasant at all. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the feedback, everyone! I love hearing from you. *hands out virtual cookies*

It takes a little while, but Jim’s stubborn. He begs and pleads with Bones until the doctor finally agrees to change his pain medication to something that makes him a little less drowsy. Bones knows that Jim hates drugs, but he also wants Jim to stay put. Apparently he’ll heal faster if he just sleeps. Which – no. He’ll sleep, but not because his pain meds make him tired. Plus, he doesn’t hurt that much. (“Goddammit, Jim, every single cell in your goddamn body had to repair itself, don’t tell me you aren’t sore!”) Jim promises to be Very Good, gives Bones his best – if slightly foggy – puppy eyes, and Bones finally caves and changes the medication.

 

Jim can stay awake for more than thirty minutes at a time now, which is totally worth the extra ache in his body.

 

He’s being good, too, just like he promised. Which is why, when Joanna shows up outside Starfleet Medical early in the morning with Jocelyn in tow, Jim doesn’t beg to see her or whine about being stuck in bed. He smiles at Bones and tells him to get out of the hospital for a day to have fun with his daughter.

 

Bones still doesn’t think Jim will be good in his absence, but Jim doesn’t really have the energy to prove him right.

 

He is, though, maybe a tiny bit bored.

 

There’s no TV in his room and he hasn’t seen his PADD since…he doesn’t even know when he last used his PADD.  He can’t leave his room. He’s not even allowed out of bed yet, according to Dr. McCoy’s Definition of Good Behavior. He was moved out of the ICU yesterday into a private room, but as it’s still relatively early, he hasn’t had any visitors.

 

As though trying to prove him wrong, someone knocks on the door.

 

“Come in – ah.” The door opens before the words are fully out of his mouth, and he straightens reflexively in the bed.

 

It’s not someone from the _Enterprise._ It’s three someones he’d rather not see while he’s wearing nothing but a hospital gown.

 

Jim sucks in a breath and salutes as best he can while propped up by pillows. “Admirals.”

 

“At ease, Kirk,” Barnett says, and though his voice is gentle, everything about his posture says he means business. This isn’t a get-well visit.

 

“Do you mind if we sit down?” Komack asks, which isn’t really a question. Jim, who’s feeling more than a little nervous, stops himself from making a comment he’ll regret later. He shakes his head. Archer pulls up three chairs and they sit around his bed, two on his right and Barnett on his left.

 

“Captain Kirk,” Barnett begins, and okay, they called him ‘captain,’ that has to be a good sign. “We appreciate that you’re still recovering from some serious injuries, but we need to officially debrief you on the events of your last mission as soon as possible.”

 

“Sir,” Jim manages. His palms feel clammy. He hasn’t thought much about what happened – two and a half weeks ago? “I haven’t written a formal report – ”

 

“That isn’t necessary,” Archer interrupts him. “Given the circumstances, we’ve opted to record this session as your official report.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Don’t stress this, Kirk,” Komack says, like that’s supposed to make him feel _less_ jittery about reporting to three Admirals while he’s stuck in a hospital bed and hasn’t even had the chance yet to think back on events himself. “We’ve got the timeline of events from your command crew. We just have some questions we’d like to ask.”

 

_Yeah right_ , Jim thinks, but nods and sits up a little straighter. His back aches from being stuck in bed for so long.

 

“To start, let’s confirm this,” Barnett consults his PADD. “You were apparently given direct orders from Admiral Marcus to pursue John Harrison to Kronos and exterminate him using newly-developed long-range torpedoes.”

 

“Excuse me, sir – I was ‘apparently’ given orders?” Jim asks warily.

 

“There’s no record that you were actually assigned such a mission,” Archer informs him. Jim gapes.

 

“Wha – it was a highly classified mission, sir, but surely – ”

 

“We’ve been through this with Commander Spock, as he was the only other person present at the time the orders were given,” Komack interrupts. “Given other classified information that has recently come to light regarding Admiral Marcus, we’re inclined to believe both of you.”

 

“Other information, sir?” Jim asks cautiously.

 

“Classified,” Komack reminds him pointedly, returning Jim’s attention to the issue at hand. “Is this your understanding of events?”

 

“That report is accurate, yes.”

 

“And you were informed that the specially-developed torpedoes would be undetectable to Klingon scanners?”

 

“Yes.” He looks at their carefully blank faces. And swears. “They weren’t, were they?” _Son of a bitch._

 

“They weren’t designed that way, no,” Archer confirms, watching him intently. “And yet despite serious misgivings about these weapons from your chief engineer – who you fired because he refused to allow them on board the _Enterprise_ – you left space dock without consulting Admiral Marcus about those misgivings.”

 

For a split second, it isn’t Archer sitting in front of him – it’s Pike, his face twisted in disapproval. Jim’s breath hitches. _Calm down_ , he thinks frantically, and forces his trembling hands to lie flat on his lap.

 

“Sir – my chief engineer _resigned_ his position because he disagreed with our orders. Orders which, coming from one of Starfleet’s most prominent admirals, I did not question until after the _Enterprise_ left space dock.”

 

“And why did you question those orders, captain?” Komack asks, face impassive.

 

“They directly violated Starfleet regulations.”

 

“If I recall correctly, you haven’t paid much attention to Starfleet regulations in the past,” Komack reminds him dryly. Jim flushes.

 

“Sir. The mission Admiral Marcus assigned my crew was akin to a military operation. It directly violated peace treaties with the Klingons and sentenced a known murderer to death without any sort of trial or closure for the friends and families of the victims. Marcus ordered us to do so using military technology I wasn’t aware Starfleet had. When I had the chance to talk with Commander Spock and my chief engineer, the entire situation seemed…suspicious, as a whole. As well as morally wrong.” He breathes deeply and forces himself to maintain eye contact with Komack. “Upon reflection of the circumstances, I thought it was reasonable to make a different call.”

 

“And that call was to capture John Harrison,” Barnett supplies.

 

“Yes.”

 

“By taking an unmarked shuttle into hostile territory while the _Enterprise_ experienced a warp core malfunction.”

 

Jim thinks there’s an “ _are you crazy?”_ hidden in there somewhere.

 

“The extent of the damage to the warp core wasn’t fully known,” Jim says carefully. “My new chief engineer believed he could repair it by the time the shuttle returned with Harrison.”

 

“You also assumed that your shuttle would pass unnoticed by the Klingons.”

 

“Our intelligence said the ruins in that area of the planet were completely deserted, so we didn’t expect the Klingons to notice us,” Jim says, and even as the words leave his mouth he realizes how insanely risky it sounds. “I believe the shuttle was intercepted by a random patrol.”

 

There’s a brief pause during which the admirals exchange glances.

 

“Do you have any evidence that this was a random patrol, and not a group of Klingons in league with Harrison?” Komack asks finally.

 

“What?” Jim looks at Komack in alarm, momentarily thrown. “The Klingons are in league with Khan?”

 

“I asked if you had any evidence which might point towards that,” Komack says, ignoring Jim’s use of ‘Harrison’s’ real name. Jim shifts uncomfortably. His back twinges with the movement.

 

“No, sir, and considering that Harrison was the one who killed them, I assume he wasn’t.” Even as he says it, Jim doubts his own argument. He had briefly been “in league” with Khan, after all, and Khan hadn’t hesitated to try to kill _him_. An uneasy knot starts to form in his stomach.

 

“Are you sure he killed _all_ of the Klingons?” Komack presses. Jim thinks back to the immediate aftermath of that moment, and all he comes up with is the feel of his fist against Khan’s unbruised face. He feels slightly sick at the memory. And he can’t remember if they checked the area for survivors or not. Maybe Spock and Uhura did, but he’s pretty sure he hadn’t been in any shape to do so.

 

“I think so, sir, but I can’t be one hundred percent sure,” he manages.

 

The admirals exchange glances again.

 

“Kirk,” Barnett says finally, “I’m sure you realize that this is highly classified information. As far as the official Starfleet story goes, you pursued Harrison into the neutral zone.”

 

Jim swallows. “Understood, sir.”

 

“Good. Now, these torpedoes…”

 

Jim doesn’t want to talk about this. He can’t control the tremors in his hands, which he fists tightly in his lap. The admirals maintain carefully blank faces as they step through the events after Khan’s capture, everything from his decision to open up a torpedo (“You took the word of a known murderer and fugitive?” “His story seemed worth investigating, sir.”) to Carol Marcus, who is apparently under house arrest (“Sir, she had nothing to do with her father’s actions, she _helped_ us – ” “That’s for us to determine, Kirk, not you.”) to Scotty’s presence on the _Vengeance_ (“You ordered him to investigate the coordinates given to you by Harrison?” “I didn’t order him to, sir. I asked for a favor.”) The admirals are particularly interested in the design of the _Vengeance_ itself. (“It was a warship, Dreadnaught class, designed to run on minimal crew, one if necessary” and damn he can almost hear Khan’s voice in his ear.)

 

They’re also interested in his conversations with Admiral Marcus and his decision to warp out of Klingon space. (Which, Klingon space. The _Enterprise_ was confronted by a massive warship captained by an untrustworthy admiral in hostile territory. Of course he wanted to get the fuck out of there.) The admirals have the _Enterprise_ ’s recording of the threats Marcus made against them, as well as an entire shipful of witnesses, so thankfully Kirk doesn’t have to defend himself against too many questions. They do want to know why he teamed up with Khan and left Spock in charge, though.

 

Which – well. He only really has one answer to that.

 

“I felt that Commander Spock was better suited to take control of the _Enterprise_ and the crew at that time.”

 

“And you felt it was your job, as captain, to confront Marcus?”

 

He hedges.

 

“I was the only one who had the authority to make the decision to arrest an admiral,” he says, and that’s kind of true, but that’s not why he left Spock in charge, not the whole reason, anyway. Jim takes a deep breath. “It was my decision to board the _Vengeance_ and arrest Admiral Marcus. I take full responsibility for my actions.”

 

He’s wound so tight he can’t even try to hide his shaking hands anymore. Komack looks at him for a long moment, and his face softens a bit.

 

“Understood, Kirk. Given the circumstances, that wasn’t an unreasonable call,” he says, tone perhaps a touch gentler than necessary.

 

Except Admiral Marcus is dead and the _Vengeance_ is apparently strewn across San Francisco, because Khan’s a dangerous bastard. Jim knew that going in. He should have been more alert – shouldn’t have trusted the stun setting on a phaser to take out a super-human who single-handedly killed an entire patrol of Klingons. If Spock hadn’t pulled the seriously impressive, sneaky Vulcan stunt he had with the torpedoes, the entire _Enterprise_ crew would have died and a warship captained by a terrorist would still be on the loose.

 

Spock saved them.

 

That’s why Jim left him in charge.

 

The debriefing comes to a close fairly quickly. It seems the admirals have heard the story of his stunt in the warp reactor and, oddly, seem to know more about it than he does. (Although in all fairness, he did black out shortly afterwards, so he only really remembers flashes of agony and desperation, Spock’s tears through the glass and two hands pressed side by side.) Barnett only asks for confirmation of the basic details. Yes, he knocked out Scotty. Yes, he realigned the power core and willingly subjected himself to radiation poisoning. No, he doesn’t remember much after that.

 

Jim feels slightly nauseated.

 

The admirals stand up to leave. Even though Jim’s exhausted now and just wants them to go, a thousand questions suddenly surge to the front of his dizzy mind – _Khan San Francisco his crew_ _his ship_ – but Barnett answers one of them before Jim can gather the courage to ask.

 

“We’re going to review our reports and confer with a panel in the next week or two,” he informs Jim before he leaves the room. “We haven’t decided yet if Marcus’s reinstatement of your captaincy will be permanent.”

 

_Oh._

 

Jim nods mutely. Stares at the door as it swings shut.

 

He was expecting it, but it’s still a crushing blow.

 

Pike had said he wasn’t ready for the captaincy. Jim hadn’t really believed him until the moment he stood in front of a viewscreen and begged for his crew’s life. In vain. There’s so much he wants to ask Pike now (can’t), so many questions and realizations that have been thrown in his face these past few weeks – he suddenly feels fragile in the empty room, like he’s going to shatter apart at any moment. 

 

He loves the _Enterprise –_ it’s his home. But he doesn’t think he deserves it. Doesn’t think his crew deserves him as their captain.

 

Whatever’s left of them.

 

(And that’s a question he hadn’t been able to force past his throat, and it shames him.)

 

He presses a button next to his bed.

 

“Do you need something, Captain Kirk?” a red-headed nurse asks a few moments later, poking her head into his room. He smiles as best he can, hopes he doesn’t look as bad as he feels, hides his shaking hands under the blanket.

 

“Yeah – I’m a little bored. Do you have a PADD I could borrow?”

 

She’s young and doesn’t know Jim Kirk, so unlike Bones, she finds nothing wrong with his request. It only takes him a few minutes to find what he’s looking for. It’s been two and a half weeks, after all – the Starfleet casualty lists were released days ago.

 

He counts the names and fights the growing nausea in his stomach. 231 people. 231 of _his_ crew dead. More than half.

 

He feels cold. He tilts his head back against the pillow and watches the ceiling spin blurrily above him, tries to force himself to take deep, slow breaths. Bile crawls up his throat from his empty stomach and makes him gag. He swallows it back down. Twice.

 

He thinks of the _Enterprise_ falling through the sky and the mad dash to engineering, Scotty’s mouth half-open in horror and the way he said “ _Jim_ ” as bodies fell past them, people screaming in every corridor, and Jim couldn’t stop, couldn’t let himself think about those people – his crew – because he couldn’t help them.

 

He was the last captain they ever had. The first one, too, for those who had just graduated from the Academy. He didn’t keep them safe, but he damn well isn’t going to fail their families.

 

Wearily, he lifts his head, opens up a blank screen, and begins to draft his first letter.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for all the wonderful feedback!  
> ...I guess I should probably mention at some point that I don't own Star Trek. *sighs unhappily* I know, I know...it really sucks.

_Don’t let go, don’t let go, don’t let go, don’t let go_

_It’s a mantra, the only thing he can let himself think about, the whole world narrowed to the seizing of his fingers. One hand around the cool metal bar, the other clamped around Scotty’s sweaty palm, his shoulders screaming in their sockets._

_He looks up and the lights flicker dangerously. The ship creaks and groans and lurches to the left, and Jim sees more crewmembers dangling above him, their grip slipping, and one of them plunges past, screaming –_

_Only to catch hold of Scotty’s foot. And when the next one falls, she grabs the other foot._

_More and more, the ship shuddering, people falling, until they’re one long chain, and Kirk looks down and they stretch on forever, the people disappearing into the blackness, all clinging to each other’s feet, Scotty to Kirk’s hand._

_Don’t let go, don’t let go, don’t let go, don’t let go_

_“Jim,” Scotty pants, face white with terror. Jim’s palms are sweaty and Scotty’s hand starts to slowly slide out of his._

_“Don’t let go,” Jim gasps, but neither of them are letting go, they’re just_ slipping apart _. “No, no, no…”_

_“Jim!”_

_Their hands separate. Jim makes a wild grab for Scotty, but he’s already gone, the chain of crewmembers with him, all those bodies falling down, down…_

“Jim!”

 

It’s dark when he opens his eyes and he doesn’t know where he is, he can’t breathe, the air’s getting stuck in his chest and _no no no_ –

 

“Lights to ten percent!”

 

He screws his eyes shut, not wanting to see the bodies. There’s a really funny gasping sound in the room that doesn’t make sense –

 

“Jim, come on, breathe with me here.” Gentle hands on his face, in his hair, and something about that touch brings tears to his tightly shut eyes. “Kid, listen – in, out. Listen to me, Jim.”

 

Someone’s taking deep, exaggerated breaths. He flounders against them, his chest tight. The hands brush through his hair, cup his face – he tries to draw more air in and finds it a little easier. Then a little more. Slowly, his breathing syncs to the breaths above him, and his chest loosens. He can’t open his eyes now even if he wanted to. He’s so, so tired…

 

“That’s it, Jim,” the familiar voice murmurs, a little gruff. “It’s okay. Just go back to sleep.”

 

There’s a faint pinch of something cool against his neck, and then he slips back into darkness.

 

* * *

 

Jim wakes up at about noon with a headache. Followed immediately by the sting of a hypospray against his neck.

 

“Bones!” he yelps on a reflex, before turning his head to check that it actually _is_ Bones, and not a random doctor.

 

“Don’t be such an infant, Jim,” McCoy grumbles, reaching up to adjust something on the monitor above Jim’s head. The doctor looks horrible – there are dark circles beneath his eyes and he’s unusually pale. His hair’s also sticking up in a way that suggests he hasn’t showered in a while.

 

“You look like hell. Did something happen with Joanna yesterday?” Jim asks, bewildered. He’s pretty sure _he’s_ the one who’s supposed to look like that, confined to a bed and all. Bones sighs and shakes his head.

 

“Nah, I had a great day with Joanna.” He hesitates, as though he’s about to say more, and then closes his mouth and fiddles with the monitors spewing out Jim’s vital signs. Jim twitches.

 

“Spit it out, Bones,” he demands. McCoy stops his fiddling with a small huff of breath, but he isn’t smiling.

 

“Look, kid…” the doctor braces his hands on the side of Jim’s bed, mouth twisted unhappily. “I should have been with you yesterday.”

 

Jim’s brain staunchly refuses to think back that far.

 

“No, you shouldn’t have,” he argues, focusing instead on the absurdity of McCoy’s statement. “You get to see Joanna – what – two times a year? Maybe? You’ve been stuck in the hospital with me for weeks, and – ”

 

“Two of which you spent in _a goddamn coma,_ Jim!” Bones interrupts angrily, and Jim shuts his mouth. “You’ve been awake for _barely_ five days. You went through a hell of a lot of trauma, and you weren’t ready to face all that again, especially not alone!”

 

“I would’ve had to, anyway, Bones,” Jim protests. “It was a debriefing. Regulations – ”

 

“ _Damn_ the regulations, then!”

 

Jim stares, eyes wide. Bones is really, truly _pissed_. There’s a tense silence while Bones grips the edge of the bed and Jim twists his hands in the blanket. (They’ve started shaking again.)

 

“I didn’t know they were comin’ yesterday,” McCoy says finally, voice calmer but Southern accent more pronounced. “If I had, I would’ve stayed.”

 

“It’s okay,” Jim starts uncertainly, but Bones shakes his head.

 

“It’s not. You’ve had it rough the past few weeks, Jim, and you’re sick for god’s sake. I didn’t want you to face that without a friend.”

 

Jim breathes out heavily and blinks, lost for words. Bones hesitates, then reaches over to the bedside table and picks up the PADD, the cursor still blinking at the end of the 138th letter Jim managed to write yesterday. He still has 93 more to go.

 

“I found you asleep with this on your lap last night,” McCoy says quietly, a little helpless. “Jim – I was going to tell you in a few days, but – dammit. I’m sorry you found out this way, kid.”

 

Jim doesn’t know what to say. He never has these conversations with Bones unless there’s alcohol involved, but there’s nothing this time to excuse the burning behind his eyes. Well, actually, maybe being stuck in a hospital bed counts. Sick people get excuses for things, he thinks a little frantically.

 

“Jim?” Bones asks uncertainly. Jim blinks.

 

“It’s okay,” he manages, and he suddenly feels extremely vulnerable, lying in bed. “I just…I needed to know.” His voice cracks a little on the last word. McCoy sighs gruffly and puts his hand on Jim’s shoulder, that doctor’s instinct to provide comfort through touch taking over. Jim usually makes fun of Bones for that, but he can’t do it this time. “I need to…I need to finish the letters. Their families deserve that much.” The hand on his shoulder tightens briefly.

 

“Dammit, kid, you don’t have to write those now,” Bones says, but there’s no real ire there, just weary acceptance. “No one’s gonna blame you if you wait.”

 

He’s wrong, though, because Jim blames himself. He tries to point that out, but the words stick in his throat.

 

“I’ll help you, if you want me to,” Bones says unexpectedly, the hand moving to gently brush through Jim’s hair. Jim blinks unsteadily. He won’t take the help – he’ll write every letter himself – but the offer makes him relax just a tiny bit. “But not until you get some more rest. You pushed it too hard yesterday.”

 

Jim wants to argue, but his brain scatters. He really is very tired. Which doesn’t make sense. He thought he was done with the heavy pain meds.

 

“You sedate me?” he slurs at Bones, eyelids heavy.

 

“No, kid. This is all you.”

 

Jim frowns.

 

“’Kay. No more hypos. ‘S stupid.”

 

He fades pretty quickly after that, but as his eyes close he thinks he hears Bones mutter “unbelievable” with a quiet snort.


	7. Chapter 7

Spock makes it back to his temporary quarters at 0117 hours with the intention of engaging in a lengthy meditation session. With the captain recovering in Starfleet Medical, the majority of the debriefings and meetings held by the admiralty require Spock’s presence, as he is currently the highest ranking officer available to provide information regarding Khan and Alexander Marcus. There has been a steady increase in the number of meetings held in the past 2.6 weeks. He leaves his quarters promptly at 0700 each morning and has not returned before midnight for the past four days.

 

Spock’s mental shields, normally impenetrable and maintained with little effort, feel strained in a way they have not since the weeks after the _Narada_ incident. There is no one in Starfleet or San Francisco unaffected by the destruction wrought by Khan, and Spock finds himself constantly shielding against an onslaught of anger, grief, and confusion throughout the day. This requires him to meditate and rest for longer amounts of time than he normally would.

 

He lights his meditation candles and changes into standard Starfleet-issue sleepwear. He is about to begin his meditation when someone knocks sharply on his door.

 

For a very brief, illogical moment, Spock contemplates ignoring the knock.

 

He appears to be in greater need of meditation than he previously thought.

 

Spock rises from the mat and crosses the room to the door, pausing to don a black bathrobe. He suspects it may be Nyota – she has come to visit his quarters often in the evenings since they returned to San Francisco.

 

When he opens the door, however, it is not Nyota.

 

“Doctor,” Spock says evenly. Dr. McCoy is dressed in a slightly rumpled Starfleet Medical uniform, his hair sticking up at the top of his head and a caged tribble held under one arm. Spock raises his eyebrows.

 

“Oh don’t give me that, you condescending hobgoblin,” McCoy growls, tapping his foot impatiently. “You gonna let me in?”

 

Dr. McCoy is not known for his manners. From his tone, Spock surmises this will be a primarily emotional encounter, the conversation of which will contain at least fourteen utterances of vulgar vocabulary. However, 96.2 percent of his interactions with the doctor are highly illogical, so this is not a new development. Spock steps aside and allows McCoy to stomp through the doorway.

 

McCoy heads straight for the nearest flat surface – a small bookshelf in the sitting room – and places the tribble cage on top of it.

 

“That’s yours,” the doctor announces bluntly. Spock’s eyebrows shoot upwards.

 

“May I ask why you feel the need to present me with a tribble, doctor?”

 

“Because,” McCoy grumbles, leaning against the bookshelf, “You like the damn thing and I don’t want it anywhere near me.”

 

“I have no preference regarding – ”

 

“Shut up, Spock, that’s our cover story, not the real reason.” Spock raises an eyebrow and folds his hands behind his back.

 

“Explain.”

 

“Look,” McCoy runs a hand tiredly through his hair. “We agreed to leave parts of Jim’s medical status out of our official reports, right? Big parts, like the fact that he was a goddamn corpse before we injected him with super-blood?”

 

“The full extent of Captain Kirk’s medical condition is not significantly relevant to Starfleet’s understanding of the conflict between the _Vengeance_ and the _Enterprise,_ nor  relevant to their understanding of the motivation behind Khan’s actions, so therefore it did not seem necessary to – ”

 

“Necessary, my goddamn foot,” McCoy interjects, rolling his eyes. “Justify it however you want, Spock, but you and I both know we don’t trust Starfleet with this information.”

 

Spock remains silent. He is unable to truthfully deny such a claim.

 

“ _So_ ,” Bones continues, pointing at the cage, “Since Khan’s blood is a secret and we can’t keep using it for tests, and we want the Starfleet brass to leave Jim the hell alone, the only thing we’ve got to study is this damn tribble. If that blood’s got long-term side effects, the only way we’ll know about them is through that furball.”

 

Spock considers the tribble thoughtfully. It shuffles to the corner of its cage and makes a quiet cooing sound.

 

“That is a logical argument, Dr. McCoy – ”

 

“Jesus, I think hell just froze over.”

 

“ – but that does not explain why you have given the tribble to me,” Spock says pointedly.

 

“Dammit, man, I’m a doctor, not a veterinarian! All my medical colleagues know I hate the stupid fuzzy things,” McCoy says with a visible shudder. “It’d look damn suspicious if I started keeping a live one in my quarters or in Sickbay.”

 

“And you believe it will be less suspicious if I keep a tribble in my quarters?” Spock’s eyebrows are somewhere in his hairline. “Vulcans do not typically keep tribbles as pets, doctor.”

 

“Bullshit,” McCoy says, covering a yawn with one hand. “Besides, if someone asks you why you’ve got a tribble in your room, you can just do that murderous Vulcan glare and they’ll shut up. It’ll be fine.”

 

Spock immediately thinks of 37 counterarguments for this statement. Since coming to Starfleet, however – and particularly since meeting Jim Kirk – he has learned to identify what humans call “a lost cause.”

 

He inclines his head.

 

“Very well, doctor. I will take custody of the tribble.”

 

“You make it sound like we’re getting a goddamn divorce,” McCoy mutters under his breath. “Just make sure you keep it on a diet. The last thing we need is a bunch of baby zombie-tribbles running around.”

 

“Zombie-tribbles?” Spock’s eyes narrow. “Please clarify.”

 

“Unlike Jim, this tribble wasn’t frozen in a cryo tube to preserve its brain function,” McCoy explains, jabbing a thumb at the cooing ball of fur. “It can’t do much besides keep its body working, so make sure you force-feed it, or it won’t eat.” He squints at the cage for a moment. “It’s dumb even by tribble standards, which is impressive if you think about it.”

 

Spock finds this entire situation illogically alarming.

 

“Also, for god’s sake, go visit Jim, would you?” McCoy continues, waving an arm in Spock’s general direction. “You were there every day when he was unconscious, and now that he’s awake you’ve turned into a ghost.”

 

“Doctor, I am hardly a grotesque apparition commonly found in Terran horror stories. Additionally, now that the captain’s recovery is assured, it seems illogical to visit the hospital while Starfleet requires my presence elsewhere.”

 

“Shut up, Spock,” McCoy growls. “I know you’re busier than all of us with the goddamn interrogation sessions the admirals are throwing at you, but that didn’t stop you from visiting before.” He gives Spock a long look which Spock finds distinctly uncomfortable. “I’m no expert on Vulcan relationships, but in human friendships, there’s usually no _logical_ reason to spend time with someone. And…I think Jim’ll feel better if he sees you.”

 

Spock remains silent, assimilating this information. The doctor would not ask unless he truly believed Jim’s health would benefit from Spock’s visits.

 

“It appears I may have…miscalculated,” Spock says finally. “I will visit Jim tomorrow.”

 

“Good,” McCoy mutters darkly. “The more people we can get in to sit with him, the better. Did _you_ know he was gonna get debriefed yesterday?”

 

Spock was unaware that the admirals had debriefed Jim at all.

 

“I did not.”

 

McCoy snorts angrily.

 

“No, of course not – it was damn sneaky. A bunch of admirals waltzed in and grilled him before he’d even had breakfast.”

 

“I was not aware that Captain Kirk was declared healthy enough to – ”

 

“Could he physically sit up and stay awake long enough to talk to them, yeah, and that’s apparently all the damn admirals wanted. Never mind that he hasn’t had time to heal from the goddamn _mental trauma_ ,” McCoy says furiously.

 

It was entirely logical for the admirals to debrief Jim as soon as possible in order to minimize the risk of an inaccurate report. For some unknown reason, however, Spock finds himself vastly displeased with the admirals’ course of action.

 

McCoy is still ranting.

 

“ – so of course, rehashing events just caused the kid to finally start thinking about everything that’s happened, and – ” McCoy breaks off, suddenly appearing worn. “The thing about Jim is, he doesn’t say what he’s really thinkin’ about. It’s a goddamn guessing game. You’ve been in command when shit hits the fan – maybe you know better than I do what he’s goin’ through. When he’s ready, talk to him, will you?”

 

Spock nods slowly.

 

McCoy looks at him for another long moment, then sighs.

 

“I’m goin’ to bed,” the doctor says, dragging a hand over his face and grumbling to himself. “It’s almost 0200. What the hell am I still doing in your quarters?” He heads for the door without pausing for Spock’s response. “Get your ass to Starfleet Medical tomorrow morning, Spock. And don’t kill the tribble!” The doctor gives this last instruction over his shoulder as the door slides shut.

 

Spock stands in the hallway for a moment after the doctor leaves. He casts an assessing look at the tribble on his bookshelf. It coos.

 

“Fascinating,” Spock says aloud.

 

He then returns to his sitting room to begin his meditation.

 

* * *

 

Spock knocks on the captain’s hospital door at 1023 hours. There is a brief silence before Jim’s muffled voice says “Come in.” Spock enters, and Jim, who appears unusually tense, relaxes immediately.

 

“Spock, it’s you,” he grins, and Spock finds himself illogically pleased at the sight of Jim’s smile. “For a second I thought you were an admiral.”

 

“Why would you mistake my presence for that of an admiral’s?” Spock asks curiously. Jim snorts.

 

“’Cause who else knocks? Bones and the nurses just barge in.” He tilts his head back and frowns. “Sit down, would you? You’re gonna give me neck pain.”

 

Spock sits in an empty chair next to the bed, taking in the vitals displayed overhead. Jim looks cheerful but tired, the dark circles present underneath his eyes indicative of insufficient rest. He also appears thinner, his face more hollow than it was 2.6 weeks ago, the skin taught across his cheekbones. Spock’s eyes flick downwards as Jim tries to discreetly tuck a PADD beneath the covers.

 

“Captain – ”

 

“Whoa, hey, what happened to ‘Jim?’” Jim demands indignantly. “We’re friends now, Spock. That means you call me Jim.”

 

“Jim,” Spock amends, tilting his head in acquiescence. “I believe I should apologize for my absence these past four days.”

 

“That’s okay,” Jim shrugs. “You’re busy, I get it. Hospitals bore me too.”

 

“I do not find your presence boring,” Spock corrects, and Jim’s mouth twitches into a half-smile. “I was merely occupied.”

 

“Yeah, no shit. I bet it’s a madhouse out there,” Jim says, most illogically. “Have you been keeping up with space dock? What’s going on with the _Enterprise?_ ”

 

Spock hesitates.

 

“Dr. McCoy instructed me not to give you information which might be stressful in – ”

 

“Spock. What is going on with my ship.”

 

Spock does not think Jim intended to use such a commanding tone. He straightens and folds his hands in his lap.

 

“Starfleet engineers are still evaluating the extent of the damage,” he tells Jim. “However, sections of engineering may need to be disassembled and repaired planetside in the Riverside Shipyard. Current data estimates that total repairs will be completed within seven to eight months’ time.”

 

Jim sits quietly for a moment, blue eyes averted. Spock finds it surprisingly difficult to interpret his reaction.

 

“I guess I really scratched her up,” Jim says finally, with a faint smile that does not seem sincere. Spock is not pleased.

 

“I believe Alexander Marcus and Khan are responsible for the damage,” he corrects. Jim shrugs, smile a little more genuine.

 

“Well, technically, yeah,” he acknowledges, and the smile fades. “Where are they keeping Khan, anyway? I hacked into the nets when Bones wasn’t looking, and it just says ‘the terrorist John Harrison’ is dead.”

 

Spock hesitates. He does not believe Jim is ready to discuss such issues; since Spock has entered the room, Jim has turned approximately two shades paler and tremors in his hands have increased by 5.6 percent. He is not well, although he does not seem to realize this.

 

“I am unclear on Starfleet’s thoughts on the matter,” Spock says carefully, which is not technically a lie. Spock only knows that a panel of admirals voted unanimously to lock Khan and his crew away in cryo tubes for an indefinite amount of time. “However, I do not believe that Khan or any of his crewmembers have a chance of escaping and causing more destruction.”

 

Jim shivers.

 

“Speaking of that, I heard the _Vengeance_ crashed _into_ the bay?” he asks. Again, Spock must tread carefully. The destruction to the city is quite visible, but Jim, confined to bed, has likely not seen any of it with his own eyes.

 

“Affirmative,” Spock says simply, and hurries on before Jim can open his mouth again. “I must leave now, Jim – I am scheduled to attend a meeting in 15.7 minutes.”

 

Jim tries to hide his disappointment.

 

“Yeah, no problem – you don’t want to be late.” He offers Spock another, smaller smile. “Thanks for stopping by.”

 

Spock does not stand up.

 

“If it is acceptable to you, I can return at 1700 hours. You once asked to engage me in a game of chess. I would be amenable to the experience.”

 

Jim’s face splits into a broad grin, and Spock feels suddenly pleased.

 

“I’m gonna kick your ass,” Jim predicts gleefully.

 

“That is doubtful, as you are still confined to a bed,” Spock observes, rising from the chair. Jim laughs as Spock heads for the door.

 

“1700 tonight, don’t forget!” he calls after Spock’s back.

 

Spock briefly considers reminding Jim that Vulcans have an eidetic memory, but merely nods and continues down the corridor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...who wants to name the tribble? :D


	8. Chapter 8

Jim can’t stay asleep. Every time he closes his eyes, he falls into a world of vague shouts, people screaming, red lights flickering through the darkness and an overwhelming sense of fear and urgency. He always feels the pressing need to do _something_ , but in his dreams – they’re not nightmares, exactly – he never knows what, and the anxiety compounds upon itself until he wakes up gasping and trembling, not sure where he is.

 

He wakes up three times, and the third time there’s someone sitting beside his bed. Jim feels the hand on his shoulder before he manages to get his bearings, blinking frantically in the faint glow of the hospital’s night lighting.

 

“It’s about time,” a voice says cheerfully. “I’ve visited you four times now, and you’ve been snoring every time.”

 

“Sulu?” Jim asks in confusion, squinting. It’s the middle of the night. He orders the lights to fifty percent, and his helmsman lightly slaps his shoulder.

 

“There are other ways to tell me you don’t want to fence with me anymore,” Sulu teases with a grin. Jim’s mouth twitches. Ever since their mission together on Nero’s drill, they’ve maintained a relationship that consists mostly of fencing lessons and dogfights in the flight sims. Sulu is Jim’s go-to person for healthy, manly competition. It’s a thing.

 

“Sorry, won’t be able to trounce you in fencing for a while,” Jim says, relaxing into the pillows and trying to let his anxiety dissipate.

 

“Don’t think this gets you out of our matches,” Sulu warns. “I’m still waiting on our fifth round.”

 

Jim, who knows Sulu’s won three of their four matches so far, hedges.

 

“We might have to wait a while until that happens. You should totally play chess with me in the meantime.”

 

“Nope,” Sulu says immediately. “You’re just sore from losing to Spock. I’m not going to be your rebound.”

 

“How d’you know about that?” Jim demands. He’s kind of a little disappointed that he didn’t beat Spock on their first game, although it had been close. The match lasted for two hours. Bones hadn’t been pleased, muttering something about hobgoblins preventing captains from resting.

 

“McCoy’s telling everyone,” Sulu says with a shrug.

 

“Traitor.”

 

“Hey, that man brought you back from the dead,” Sulu says lightly. “He can micro-manage your life however he wants.”

 

“He’s done that since day one,” Jim complains, waving his hand dismissively. Then does a double take. “Hang on – did you say he brought me back from the dead? Don’t you feed that man any more delusions of god-hood, he already knows he’s a medical genius!”

 

For some reason, Sulu looks extremely uncomfortable.

 

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “McCoy is a miracle worker. It’s good to see you, Jim.”

 

Jim nods uncertainly, a little confused, but realizes they’ve somehow moved into uncomfortable “you almost died and I’m really glad you didn’t” territory.

 

“So…” he says, because the subject needs to change, “What’re you doing here? Not that I’m not, you know, happy to see you, but it’s like 0400.”

 

Sulu reaches under the bed and reveals a brown paper bag.

 

“I brought food,” he announces, “Which Dr. McCoy did _not_ approve of when I _didn’t_ ask him for permission.”

 

Jim, who was fed through an IV line the two weeks he was in a coma, then hadn’t been able to eat the day he regained consciousness, has only been eating real food for about six days and already can’t stand the hospital meals. Sulu opens the bag and pulls out two slices of German chocolate cake.

 

“I think I love you,” Jim says, starstruck.

 

It’s 0400 hours and they’re eating German chocolate cake without utensils in a hospital room. For a few moments, Jim allows himself to marvel at the fact that someone cares enough to sit with him at this time in the morning, never mind bring him illegal cake. God, he loves his crew.

 

And if he asks Sulu enough inconsequential questions and laughs enough and eats enough of the cake, he can forget that he’s not sure if he deserves to be their captain. 

 

* * *

 

 

Sulu’s visit, surprisingly, wears Jim out enough to let him sleep for a few more hours. He wakes up around 1130 and sees Bones standing at the end of his bed, frowning severely at the PADD in his hand.

 

“You look like someone stole your hypo,” Jim says groggily, blinking sleep out of his eyes. He would know, too – he once hid some of Bones’ hyposprays when they were at the Academy. The resulting Fit of Anger had been simultaneously hilarious and terrifying.

 

“What?” Bones asks with a start, looking up and quickly clicking out of whatever he’d been reading.

 

“You were scowling,” Jim says.

 

“Yeah, damn Starfleet brass,” Bones mutters by way of explanation, but before Jim can ask for more details (not that he’d actually _get_ any – Bones doesn’t tell him anything), the doctor drops a present in his lap. “Ready to walk?”

 

Jim immediately feels more awake.

 

“ _What?_ ” he says, elated. “You’re gonna let me out of bed?”

 

He hasn’t been allowed to walk at all since he woke up – the most he’s done is stand for a few moments in the bathroom. He’s been begging Bones to let him get on his own two feet, but the doctor refused the last two times he asked, and Jim, for a change, hasn’t felt like testing his ire. Bones has been awfully stressed lately – even Jim can see that. He hasn’t actually been bored enough (yet) to consider adding to those stress levels by disobeying the “Do Not Get Out of Bed” orders.

 

“I thought you were going to wait a few more days!”

 

“Yeah, well, I’m tired of wheeling you to the goddamn bathroom every day,” Bones says grumpily, and Jim’s eyes narrow suspiciously. That can’t be the real reason. He doesn’t get the chance to ask, though, because Bones bustles around his bed and taps something into the monitors.

 

“You had an _alarm system_ on me?” Jim asks, aghast.

 

“Damn straight I did,” Bones says cheerfully, slowly raising the bed so Jim’s in a sitting position. “You’ve run off on me too many times before. Now,” he turns serious. “Go slowly, kid – your muscles are pretty weak right now.”

 

That’s kind of the understatement of the week, Jim thinks as he carefully maneuvers his legs over the edge of the bed. He feels shaky. It had been hard at first to wrap his mind around the idea that he’d been lying in a coma for two weeks, but it’s much easier to believe now. He gets both feet on the floor and his knees knock together when he puts weight on them.

 

“Careful,” Bones mutters, steadying Jim with an arm around his waist. Jim feels a brief flash of embarrassment and quickly suppresses it. It’s not like there’s a Starfleet Admiral in the room. It’s just Bones, and as much as Jim would like to walk on his own, he can tell his body isn’t exactly on the same page.

 

They walk – well, okay, Jim shuffles and Bones walks – carefully to the opposite wall. Jim points them towards the window, which he can’t see out of from his bed. It’s tinted to simulate closed blinds.

 

“Can you open that?” he asks after a moment, because he’s not sure if he can let go of Bones just now. His legs might be shaking a little. Bones hesitates.

 

“Maybe you should just – ”

 

“Bones, _come on_ ,” Jim whines. “I haven’t seen anything except this room in ages!”

 

Bones looks at him for a long moment, oddly solemn. Then he reaches over and, after some maneuvering, punches his medical code into the window’s controls.

 

“It was _locked_?” Jim asks, looking at Bones incredulously as the simulated blinds dissolve. “What, did you think I was going to jump out, or – oh.” He stares.

 

San Francisco is just – gone. A whole third of the skyline Jim’s grown so familiar with simply does not exist anymore, a gaping hole where the _Vengeance_ crashed. He blinks.

 

“You okay?” Bones asks cautiously, and Jim opens his mouth for a second, then closes it. He doesn’t know what he feels, besides shock. He tries to wrap his mind around the missing buildings – the missing _people_ – and comes up with a blank. It’s eerily similar to the moment when the _Enterprise_ warped into the wreckage of the entirefleet of starships the _Narada_ destroyed.  

 

It’s just so much to process.

 

“Fuck,” he says finally, and abruptly realizes that his legs have turned to jelly in the time he’s been standing there. Bones slings Jim’s arm over his shoulder and helps him shuffle back to the bed.

 

“There are clean-up crews working ‘round the clock,” Bones informs him quietly as Jim clumsily pulls his limbs back into bed. He’s exhausted. “A lotta people were saved in the first few days – some of them survived underneath the wreckage even longer than that.” 

 

“I knew it was bad,” Jim mumbles. He’s seen the numbers on the nets, even seen pictures of the damage, but it’s somehow so much different in person – it’s impossible not to stare at the gaping hole in the skyline. Bones gently puts a hand on his shoulder.

 

“It’s hard on everyone,” he says gruffly.

 

Jim breathes out slowly, suddenly grateful that Bones is here. He feels a little egotistical for thinking it, but he really doesn’t want to face any more bad news on his own. Facing the Admirals by himself had been a necessity, but it sucked, and – and he really, really just doesn’t want to deal with this right now.

 

“I’m tired,” he mumbles, looking down at his hands. His legs are trembling from his little “walk.” Fuck, he has so much physical therapy in his future…

 

“Yeah, kid, I bet you are.” Bones gently squeezes his shoulder before removing his hand. “You don’t have a lotta strength right now. You should try to sleep.”

 

_That’s all I seem to actually_ do _,_ Jim thinks to himself, but can’t muster the energy to say it out loud. His eyelids feel heavy. Within seconds, he’s asleep.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes up, he’s alone in his room. He blinks at the ceiling for a bit before checking the clock on the wall. 1500 hours. He groans a little to himself, then stretches carefully and raises the bed to a sitting position. He’s sleeping _way_ too much.

 

For a second, he sits there, letting his thoughts settle into place. He tries not to look at the window, even though he can’t actually see out of it from his angle – he’s glad he knows, glad Bones let him look, but…they’ve lost so much.

 

Jim thinks back a year to the _Narada_ incident and darkly wonders if there’s some sort of pattern forming. First Nero, now Khan – Starfleet seems to have a lot of enemies hell-bent on mass destruction.

 

And an organization with violent enemies must itself be…

 

He shakes his head, the words “humanitarian and peacekeeping armada” bouncing mockingly around his skull. He doesn’t want to think about Marcus or Pike or Starfleet. Or Khan. He looks somewhat desperately around the room for his PADD. It’s nowhere to be seen, but he notices Bones left his sitting on the bedside table. The doctor must have grabbed Jim’s by mistake.

 

Jim thinks back to the doctor’s scowl earlier that morning and is immediately curious, which is a welcome distraction. He picks up the PADD and accesses the history, searching…there has to be something that pissed Bones off…

 

He stops. Opens up a document.

 

Reads it twice, just to make sure. And then a third time, in disbelief.

 

….Jim is _not_ angry. He’s a little annoyed and maybe a little betrayed, because even though he trusts McCoy as a doctor, he trusts his friend more, and he doesn’t think his friend would deliberately hide –

 

Okay. So Jim might be angry.

 

Actually, he’s _pissed off_.

 

“Were you, by _any chance_ , planning to tell me about this before tomorrow?” he demands the second Bones walks through the door. Jim jabs a finger at the PADD. “‘Memorial service for the Starfleet members lost in John Harrison’s terrorist attacks, _tomorrow at 1400._ ’”

 

“Jim…” Bones runs a hand through his hair, looking suddenly very tired. “Listen – ”

 

Jim tosses the PADD forcefully onto the bed, trembling. He doesn’t want to listen to what Bones has to say.

 

“Two hundred and thirty-one of the people that are going to be honored tomorrow were under _my_ command,” he snarls. “Their families are going to be there, and I only _just_ sent out the letters last night. I didn’t even _call_ them. I wasn’t even the one to deliver the news. And now I’m just going to _sit here_ while everyone else – ”

 

“Goddammit, Jim, you’re _confined to a hospital bed_!” Bones interrupts, frustrated. “You were in a _coma_ when those families got the news. You haven’t talked to anyone except some visitors and the goddamn admirals since you woke up – hell, you haven’t even sent a message to your mom. No one expects you to be at the ceremony tomorrow – ”

 

“That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be there!”

 

“ – and no one is gonna look down on you if you aren’t there!”

 

“Pike would,” Jim says vehemently, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he even really knows what he’s saying. “Pike went to the ceremony for the cadets we lost to the _Narada._ ”

 

There’s a kind of stunned silence. Jim’s blood pounds in his ears – the room feels unusually cold all of a sudden, and there’s a funny tingling sensation in his fingertips. Bones lets out a long, careful breath. Jim doesn’t like the sudden softening in his eyes.

 

“Kid – ”

 

“I wonder what he would’ve thought of Khan,” Jim blurts out, because he doesn’t want to hear Bones speak, can’t quite meet his friend’s eyes. “Pike, I mean. He probably wouldn’t have listened to Marcus in the first place – Starfleet doesn’t just _wander_ into Klingon space, no matter who’s hiding there. He probably would’ve – ” Jim breaks off, lost. “He would’ve – ”

 

“Jim,” Bones says firmly, and Jim closes his mouth. “Look. You’re not…you’re not healthy enough to attend the ceremony tomorrow.”

 

Jim looks down. He knows that, _fuck_ he knows that, he can barely walk across the damn room, but it’s just – it’s not –

 

“But,” Bones continues carefully, and Jim’s head shoots up. “ _If_ you’re feeling okay tomorrow – and I mean _if_ – Spock and I can take you to the site after it’s all over. There’s a temporary shrine sort of put up, and you can light a candle or something – ”

 

He breaks off. Jim’s vision has gone a little blurry.

 

“Aw, hell,” McCoy mutters. He puts a hand carefully on Jim’s leg. “You’ve gotta stay in the damn hoverchair, though, got it? No walking, no standing – ”

 

Jim sniffs and offers a watery half-smile. Bones closes his mouth.

 

“It’s gonna be okay,” he says after a moment, eyeing Jim carefully. He hesitates. “And…for what it’s worth – Pike would be proud of you, kid. I know I am.”

 

Jim can’t speak. He doesn’t believe Bones about Pike, but fuck, Bones has never said he’s proud of Jim. Not outright, anyway. He swallows.

 

Bones gets it. He squeezes Jim’s knee and lets the subject slide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys had so many great name suggestions for The Tribble…I honestly have no idea what to call it now. It won’t show up again for a few more chapters, though, so more time to brainstorm!
> 
> Also, there might be a bit of a longer wait before the next chapter, because I’m going on a camping trip with my little sister. 
> 
> Birthday cake for all of you! (Purple with unicorns. No, seriously. My mom made me a purple unicorn cake for my birthday. *flails happily* I am not too old for this, dammit.)


	9. Chapter 9

The hoverchair is Not Cool.

 

Jim emerges from the bathroom on shaky legs, dressed in the grey Starfleet uniform Bones brought him, and stares.

 

“Why is it purple?” he asks, aghast. Bones ignores him and thrusts a standard-issue Starfleet hat into his hands. Jim grabs the doorframe for balance.

 

“Put that on and don’t whine, we don’t need anyone recognizing you,” the doctor growls. Jim opens his mouth to protest (the hat is ugly), but before he can say anything, the door opens and Spock walks in.

 

“Doctor,” he says serenely, as though he hasn’t just come from a memorial service, “I have located the object you requested.”

 

Jim watches in disbelief as Spock hands Bones a pair of sunglasses.

 

“Seriously?” Jim splutters.

 

“D’you know how many media hounds want an interview with you?” Bones says, waving the sunglasses in Jim’s face. “It was a private memorial, but some goddamn enthusiastic journalist could be lurking around in disguise. Damn straight you’re putting these on.” He eyes Jim’s grip on the doorframe. “And sit down, for god’s sake.”

 

“Oh,” Jim huffs, even as he steps unsteadily towards the hoverchair, “So you think that your journalist in disguise _won’t_ notice me if I’m sitting in a _purple_ – ”

 

His knees go weak before he quite makes it to the hoverchair. Spock and Bones lunge forward and catch him before he hits the floor.

 

“You stay in the purple chair, or you don’t go,” Bones grunts, arms under Jim’s shoulder as he and Spock haul him upright. “You shouldn’t even be leaving the goddamn building yet.”

 

Jim stews silently as Bones and Spock help him carefully into the chair. It is, at least, comfortable. Spock watches him for a moment.

 

“I do not understand why the color of the chair displeases you, Jim,” he says, one eyebrow raised in a way that says _you illogical humans_. “I assure you that it has no effect on the quality of the chair itself.”

 

Jim tries valiantly to keep his lips from twitching.

 

“It’s a human thing, Spock,” he says, grinning at his First’s raised eyebrow. “It’s – oh, never mind.”

 

“Put those sunglasses _on_ ,” Bones snarks, ignoring them both and opening the door to the room. Jim, who doesn’t believe in no-win scenarios but can spot a lost cause when he sees it, puts on the ridiculous sunglasses and hat.

 

They make their way slowly out of the building. Jim insists on maneuvering the chair himself. He might not be able to walk yet, but he’s still going to have _some_ control over where he goes, dammit.

 

The “walk” across the Starfleet grounds passes with little fanfare. It’s sunny and warm out, and Jim takes a moment to breathe in the fresh air. He hasn’t been outside in…more than three weeks. Which is a little disturbing, given that he hasn’t been in a starship. They pass a few cadets on the walkways, but no one pays him, Bones, or Spock much attention. Jim does see one or two other hoverchairs – many people are still healing from the attacks, and the knowledge that his purple chair isn’t out of place is sobering.

 

The site near the memorial is, surprisingly, mostly empty. Clean-up crews are stacking chairs, and there are a few upper-rank officers walking around, but most of the attendees from the service are either inside the Starfleet building at a private reception or have already left the grounds. Jim follows Bones around the corner and – stops.

 

The seven-month-old memorial for the _Narada_ victims, a tall black obelisk etched with names, rises out of a mountain of flowers, notes, and other tokens that the people of San Francisco have left in honor of the _Vengeance_ ’s victims. The concrete base, normally an open space for visitors to sit and pay their respects, isn’t visible at all. Jim notices a row of candles burning along one edge. The steps are plastered with signs, ribbons, and photos, and –

 

And scattered along the edges of the memorial, stopping to read notes, set down flowers, or light candles, is Jim’s bridge crew.

 

Jim stares.

 

“I thought they went to the memorial service,” he says blankly when Bones turns to look at him in concern. He realizes he’s awkwardly stopped in the middle of the walkway, but he can’t quite make his hand touch the controls.

 

“They did,” Bones says simply.

 

“You did not think they would wait here to visit the memorial with you?” Spock asks from over Jim’s shoulder. He sounds puzzled. Or as puzzled as a Vulcan can sound, anyway.

 

“I – ” Jim breaks off, the sudden warm feeling in his chest a strange contrast to the ache caused by the sight of the memorial. He shakes his head and pulls off the sunglasses. With his crew here, there’s no chance he won’t be recognized, anyway.

 

Uhura spots them and offers a small wave. Jim maneuvers the hoverchair forward and meets them at the edge of the memorial.

 

“Keptin!” Chekov is closest, solemn but still practically quivering with energy. “It is good to see you, sir – you haff been sleeping ewery time I stopped by ze hospital.”

 

Jim’s lips twitch as he reaches out to shake Chekov’s hand.

 

“It’s good to see you, too, Ensign. And, Chekov…” he lowers his voice, and the Russian leans closer to catch the words. “You did a good job, up there. Thank you.”

 

He’s been thinking about that – Chekov’s not even twenty yet, and even though he’s a genius, there are some burdens no teenager should have to shoulder. Suddenly taking responsibility for the functionality of a starship’s engines – and therefore the well-being of the entire crew – is one of them.

 

Chekov ducks his head, a faint blush on his cheeks.

 

“Eet was nothing, sir. But…I do not think I am weady to wear a redshirt yet.”

 

Jim falters at that. He doesn’t have the authority to make any promises – he’s still only temporary captain of the _Enterprise_.

 

“Personally, I think you look better in gold,” he offers, forcing his tone into something lighter, and apparently it works. Chekov grins before stepping back so Jim can see the rest of his crew.

 

They’re all there – Uhura, Scotty, Sulu, and even…

 

“Dr. Marcus,” Jim says, surprised. “I thought you were – how are you?” It’s probably not very tactful to ask her when she was released from house arrest.

 

Carol offers him a small smile, fingers tightening on the flower pot she’s carrying. She looks pale, and there are dark circles under her eyes.

 

“I’m alright, Captain,” she says quietly. “How are you feeling?” Jim gestures wryly to the hoverchair.

 

“I’ve been better, but I’ll live.”

 

For some reason, everyone flinches.

 

“Excuse me – Captain Kirk?”

 

Jim starts in surprise and turns towards the voice. An unfamiliar Starfleet official with greying blonde hair stands near them, a hesitant smile on his face. He’s older – maybe the same age as Pike – and he steps forward, right hand extended.

 

“I’m Vice Admiral Davis Enderson,” he says, before Jim can even open his mouth. “It’s a pleasure to meet you – just wanted to congratulate you on apprehending John Harrison.” Jim doesn’t offer his own hand, blinking up at Enderson in disbelief. “It’s horrible, isn’t it?” Enderson continues obliviously, gesturing to the memorial. “All those lives lost because one Starfleet agent wanted a war. You know, I met Admiral Marcus a few times, and I always thought he was a smart, honorable man. Don’t know why he ever listened to Harrison – I guess it just goes to show that everyone can have a serious lapse in judgment. False intelligence about the Klingons, it’s frankly ridiculous – ”

 

….Jim has absolutely _no_ idea what this man is talking about. His patience, already stretched thin between the hoverchair and the stress of visiting the memorial, snaps.

 

Spock’s, however, apparently snaps first.

 

“Excuse me,” his First interrupts, tone Vulcan-cool. “Captain Kirk is still recovering from injuries he recently sustained, and he has a limited amount of time to spend outside the hospital. You are currently interrupting his visit to the memorial site. It is not appropriate for you to voice your comments at this time.”

 

Enderson blinks at Spock, nonplussed. So does Jim.

 

“Oh,” Enderson splutters after a second. “Oh, of course – so very sorry, didn’t mean to intrude – ” he looks around and suddenly realizes he’s on the receiving end of six hostile glares. “I’ll just be going – such a pleasure to meet you all…”

 

He trails off and beats a hasty retreat.

 

Jim blinks. There are several seconds of awkward silence.

 

“Spock has a point,” Uhura speaks up finally, gently putting a hand on Jim’s shoulder. “You can’t stay too long. We’ll let you pay your respects, Captain.”

 

Jim doesn’t know what to say, so he nods. His bridge crew slowly drifts apart, back to their own quiet contemplation of the memorial. Scotty claps him on the shoulder. Bones gently touches his head before giving him some space. Only Spock does not move. Jim looks at him for a second, but Spock’s focus remains steadfastly ahead, his hands folded behind his back.

 

It’s oddly touching.

 

He circles the site slowly, hand just a bit unsteady on the hoverchair’s controls, Spock following a few paces behind. Jim’s tired – he didn’t sleep well last night, and his body isn’t used to the hoverchair. There’s an overwhelming amount of flowers piled around the obelisk. Jim has never seen it like this – in the first few weeks after the fight with Nero, most of the flowers for the victims of the _Narada_ had been piled around the _Kelvin_ memorial site.

 

He stops for a moment and simply stares at the tokens. Printed photos – a rarity nowadays – a stuffed bear, handwritten notes, posters with children’s handprints. At the edge of the pile, someone hung a long string of folded paper cranes. Near the ledge with the candles, there are hundreds of white ribbons tied to the fence.

 

These are the ones who survived, he thinks, watching the ribbons flutter in the breeze. The ones who have to live with the destruction and make sense of a world that doesn’t make sense.

 

It’s as much a memorial for the living as it is a memorial for the dead.

 

The breeze picks up for a moment, sending papers and ribbons fluttering. A scrap of paper floats up and lands in Jim’s lap. It’s a handwritten poem, the writing an untidy scrawl.

 

He picks it up and reads it, silent.

 

_Life:_

_Breathing, seeing,_

_Heart beating._

_The power to move_

_And speak_

_And think._

_Life:_

_Happiness, joy,_

_A moment spent_

_With friends;_

_Revelations_

_And bliss._

_Life:_

_Sorrow, pain,_

_A black hole._

_Flush of anger,_

_Despondency_

_And darkness._

_Life:_

_That state of being;_

_Middle of conflict;_

_Yours to decide_

_And take_

_And make your own._

_Life:_

_A subtle gift_

_To change and shape._

_To love, to cherish:_

_To live_

_Or to exist;_

_Life:_

_Always changing, so fleeting._

_Not yours to own,_

_But to accept_

_And treasure_

_And give. ******_

 

He puts the paper down slowly, watches it flutter to the ground. He thinks of his dead crewmembers and the dead civilians – the civilians who were never a part of Starfleet, who never signed up to risk their lives in the stars, but who lost what all Starfleet personnel were prepared to lose – and suddenly he gets the horrid, twisted sense that nothing makes sense, and it _hurts_.

 

He signed up for Starfleet. Signed up for Starfleet, accepted the risk, and then spent his days in the Academy trying to avoid it, spent his first year in the captain’s chair breaking regulations left and right in order to save lives. It felt natural, it was Jim Kirk – if it’s supposedly inevitable, cheat it. Stay two steps ahead of death.

 

Until it wasn’t avoidable anymore. Until Pike lay cold beneath his hand and his ship fell to pieces and he lost over half his crew. Until, in the middle of the chaos and horror of the _Enterprise_ falling from the sky, he finally, for the first time in his life, accepted death as an option.

 

(He never has, before. When he was little, he learned that his father sent himself to his own death, and then Jim spent the rest of his life determined to defy that very idea. He drove a car off a cliff so he could live. He fought against Kodos on Tarsus IV by hurting, sneaking, cheating, and stealing in order to feed his kids. He refused to leave Spock in a volcano, damn the Prime Directive.)

 

And then he learned the lesson his dad must have learned. When it comes down to it, death takes what it wants. And sometimes it’s better to accept it, to stare it full in the face – angry, defiant, terrified, defenseless – so that other people might avoid it for one more day. In some ways, he thinks, that’s a win-scenario.

 

Except…

 

Hundreds of thousands of people are dead who never had his choice. Pike (his chest aches), Starfleet members, civilians, the Admiral who started the whole damn mess. Jim wonders how many of them accepted it in their final moments – and how many of them were cut silent without ever knowing.

 

He stares at the piles of flowers on the ground, vision blurry, and wonders why he’s alive to visit their memorial. Wonders how fate decided to let him keep his life, how it decided to take theirs.

 

It’s so fucking unfair.

 

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until he feels Spock’s hand on his shoulder. It’s not dramatic – just tears silently slipping down his face. But damn, he’s never cried in public before. And never in front of a Vulcan. Spock moves to stand in front of him, closer than usual with both of his hands on Jim’s shoulders, and that’s weird for a second before Jim realizes that Spock’s trying to give him privacy from the rest of his crew. And then he tries unsuccessfully to smother a hysterical laugh, because _Spock_ is trying to be emotionally sensitive. It’s kind of confusing.

 

He wipes his eyes and takes a shuddering breath, head in his hands. He could fall apart – he feels fragile enough, tired enough. But he won’t. Instead, he breathes. After a few moments, he lifts his head, suddenly grateful for the ridiculous Starfleet hat that helps disguise the evidence of tears.

 

Spock removes his hands and takes a half step back. Jim looks up at him. He’s holding a small, unlit candle.

 

“I believe it is a Terran custom to light a candle at a memorial site?” Spock asks, eyes soft. Jim manages a small, watery smile.

 

“Yeah – yeah, we should do that.”

 

Spock helps him light the wick from one of other candles burning along the concrete ledge, then gently places their candle beside the others. Jim looks at them for a moment, all the lights flickering together. He glances around and realizes his bridge crew has gathered behind him, keeping a respectful, watchful distance.

 

He could have lost them too, he thinks. Scotty, Sulu, Chekov, Uhura. Bones. Even Carol.

 

Spock steps beside his chair.

 

“I grieve with thee,” he says quietly. Jim swallows, absurdly grateful, heart too full for words.

 

He watches the flames dance beneath the white ribbons. _We are here_ , they seem to whisper. _And we carry on._

****The poem “Life” belongs to me, M. Spire. Please do not borrow without permission/giving credit.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this ages ago and didn't like it at all.  
> I still don't like it.  
> However, I've now read it so many times that now the words blur automatically, so here it is!

There’s a knock on his door.

 

“Come in,” Jim says, setting down his PADD. He’s starting to get very tired of his hospital room, although the visits from his crew make his life tolerable. The door swings open to admit Christopher Pike.

 

Jim’s mouth falls open.

 

The Admiral looks sunken and pale, his eyes angry. His entire body is encased in a black box from the shoulders down. Without prompting, the box wheels into Jim’s room.

 

Jim stares. He can’t even remember how to salute.

 

“Pike – sir – ”

 

“That’s enough, Kirk,” Pike says, and the steel note in his voice robs Jim of words. “The admirals made their decision last night. You’re done.”

 

Jim blanches. That’s not even what – he can hardly process – Pike is fucking _alive inside a box_ –

 

“You mean – they’re demoting me?” He tries to focus on Pike’s words (and not Pike himself), but he can’t seem to form a sentence. Pike looks at him, impassive.

 

“No.”

 

“They’re kicking me out?” He sounds desperate even to himself. “They can’t – ”

 

“Yes they can,” Pike interrupts sternly, eyes hard. Jim looks for the familiar warmth and finds none. “You’ve broken too many rules. You’ve shown no responsibility. You’re unfit for the captaincy, Kirk, and frankly, you’re unfit to hold any place in command.”

 

Jim can’t breathe.

 

“And no, you can’t transfer to another department,” Pike continues before Jim even thinks to ask the question. “You’re too headstrong – Starfleet expects and requires discipline. There’s a war coming, and we need to be able to rely on our enlisted members.”

 

“I…” Jim can’t process this. He says the first thing that comes to his head – asks Pike, because Pike has been there for him, Pike knows – “What’ll I do?”

 

“Nothing,” Pike replies icily. “You’re a leader, Kirk – you always have been, even if you’re not command material. And if Starfleet lets you go, you’ll give us nothing but trouble. We need the Federation united. You know too much about this war, and we can’t allow that.”

 

“ _What_?” Jim doesn’t understand. “You’re arresting me?”

 

“No.”

 

It’s one word, but it sends a bone-deep chill through Jim’s body. Pike turns his chair around and the door opens of its own accord.

 

“We didn’t have a choice, Kirk.”

 

Cryo tubes line the corridor outside his hospital room. Jim sees Spock’s face frozen inside the nearest one, his eyebrows raised in shock. He lies next to Bones, whose face is contorted in a grimace – and farther down, Uhura, eyes closed, and then Scotty, his eyes wide open – Sulu – Chekov – and even farther down his mother and Sam –

 

Bile leaps up Jim’s throat.

 

He tears his eyes away, gasping, horror-stricken, dread exploding into fear in his chest. He gets tangled in the sheets as he stumbles out of bed and ends up crashing to the floor. He can’t see. His vision’s blurry and he tries to get up, but his legs collapse beneath him.

 

Medical personnel and security guards appear in the doorway with an empty cryo tube between them. _NO._ He won’t, he can’t he can’t he can’t – he scrambles backwards and someone catches his arm in a vice-like grip, the cryo tube gets closer, and all the desperation builds up until he’s screaming, screaming –

 

“ _Jim!_ ”

 

He wrenches his eyes open and finds himself on the floor next to his bed, staring straight into Spock’s worried gaze, the Vulcan’s hand tight around his arm. Jim hears screaming.

 

Then he realizes that it’s _him_.

 

He chokes on the sound, gags instead – and loses the battle with his stomach. Jim pushes Spock weakly aside and doubles over, vomiting on all fours until he sees stars. His chest aches as he heaves, a sharp pain that he can’t quite attribute to the fact that he’s spewing his insides onto the floor. He stares at the ground and tries vainly to gasp in air, his vision blurry with tears.

 

“Jim.” There’s a tentative, too-warm hand on his back. Spock sounds a little frantic. “Jim, I will call Dr. McCoy. Are you alright?”

 

“Don’t call Bones,” Jim gasps. He squeezes his eyes shut for just a moment, then sits back on his heels and wipes his mouth with the back of one trembling hand.

 

“Jim,” Spock does not look pleased, his hand hovering over Jim’s back. “You are obviously unwell. Dr. McCoy – ”

 

“ – is stressed enough as it is,” Jim interjects, turning his head to meet Spock’s eyes. “He’s been running himself ragged taking care of me. You don’t need to wake him up in the middle of the night just because I had a nightmare.”

 

“On the contrary, Dr. McCoy predicted you would not sleep well tonight,” Spock says with that non-frown of his. “He wished to be notified if you became distressed – ”

 

“I’m not distressed!” Jim protests loudly.

 

Spock raises both eyebrows.

 

“Okay.” Jim runs both hands through his hair and takes a deep breath. “It’s a nightmare, Spock. I’m used to them. Bones just wanted to make sure I didn’t hyperventilate or something. I’m _fine_.”

 

Spock stares at him doubtfully.

 

“Really,” Jim says, a little desperately. He doesn’t want the concern, and damn, Bones is too perceptive and too pushy and _not_ the person he wants to talk to right now. He just…would rather not talk to anyone about his health at all.

 

Spock looks at him for a long moment, impassive. Jim makes a conscious effort not to clench his hands.

 

“Very well,” Spock says finally, and Jim lets out a shaky breath of relief. Spock shoots him a look, but merely stands up and heads to the communications unit on the wall to request a cleaning droid. Jim scrubs his eyes and tries to expel the last of the anxiety from his nightmare. It had felt so real.

 

Spock returns with a small cup of water, which Jim gratefully accepts. Once he drains the cup, he grasps the railing of the bed and hauls himself unsteadily to his feet. Spock makes a sudden, aborted movement, as though to reach out and help – but doesn’t. Jim feels a small flash of gratitude.

 

It takes him a few tries, but he finally crawls into the bed. The sheets are twisted at the foot, and he spends more time than necessary straightening them out. As he does so, the cleaning droid arrives, and Spock directs it to take care of the mess on the floor. Jim’s back in bed by the time it leaves, propped up by pillows with a million thoughts running through his head.

 

“Do you require anything else?” Spock asks after a moment.

 

Jim hesitates. He doesn’t want to talk about Pike or his doubts about his command abilities. Those thoughts are shoved away in a deep dark corner of his mind, and he’s afraid to touch them. He hasn’t even told anyone that the admirals still need to make a final decision about his captaincy. But there are several questions he wants answered.

 

“Khan,” he says, and tilts his head to look at Spock. “Where is he? Why do all the nets think that ‘John Harrison’ is dead?” A thought suddenly hits him, and he nearly bolts upright. “He’s not dead, right? The Admirals didn’t kill him?” He can’t believe he didn’t consider that possibility sooner – maybe a year ago it wouldn’t have ever crossed his mind, but now –

 

“Khan is not dead,” Spock says, and lowers himself into the chair beside Jim’s bed. “He was returned to his cryo tube, and he is currently locked away in a highly classified location with the rest of his crew.”

 

Jim wars with relief and disgust over this information.

 

“It’s not right,” he mumbles, pressing his hands to his eyes and thinking of his nightmare. “Freezing people away – he at least deserved a trial.”

 

“A trail would inevitably end in incarceration,” Spock says, a touch sharply. “And I do not think any Starfleet prison could hold a being of his intelligence.”

 

“No,” Jim sighs heavily. “I just – ” he promised Khan a trial “ – what was done to him was wrong. What he did was wrong, too, but – imprisoning a man and his crew and locking them away forever, without any sort of defense…”

 

“He killed many people,” Spock interjects stiffly.

 

Jim stops. He doesn’t even know what he’s arguing. He’s _glad_ Khan is secured and can’t cause any more destruction. But Jim also…wonders what sort of man _he_ would be, if Starfleet froze him and everyone he cared about for three hundred years.

 

“It goes against the principles of the Federation,” Spock acknowledges after a moment of silence, and Jim can tell from the faint tightening around Spock’s eyes that he’s not exactly comfortable with the situation either. “But a public trial is simply not a feasible option. Presentation of a fair case against Khan would put a significant portion of Starfleet’s classified information at risk. Additionally, such a trial would contradict the story Starfleet has released to the public.”

 

Jim’s eyes narrow, mind flashing back to Vice Admiral Enderson’s ramblings at the memorial.

 

“Yeah, about that…what _is_ the official story?” He hadn’t bothered to look that up on the nets. He’d been preoccupied by the casualty count.

 

Spock releases a tiny puff of breath, which is basically the Vulcan equivalent of a massive sigh. The official story, or so Spock reveals, goes like this:

 

‘John Harrison’ was a Starfleet Intelligence commander. He was also a terrorist who deeply disliked and was paranoid about the Klingons, and came to the conclusion that all Klingons should be wiped out in a massive war with the Federation. In order to set this plan in motion, he fed Admiral Marcus false intelligence which revealed the Klingons were planning to attack the Federation and start a war. Consequently, Harrison was given permission to secretly design warships and weapons to defend the Federation against such an attack. After the destruction of Vulcan, work on such projects got delayed while Starfleet focused on rebuilding the fleet. Harrison grew impatient with the Federation and decided to look elsewhere for the support he needed to make war with the Klingons. He then bombed London and attacked Starfleet headquarters, intending to board and steal the _Vengeance_ – Starfleet’s only completed warship –while Starfleet command was in chaos.

 

However, Harrison’s attack on Starfleet headquarters didn’t go as planned, because Captain Kirk had the brilliant idea to destroy his shuttle with a fire hose. Knowing that Admiral Marcus had survived and that his cover was blown, Harrison escaped headquarters, stole an unmarked shuttle, and fled towards Klingon space. The _Enterprise_ was sent to pursue him and caught him at the edge of the Neutral Zone. Worried that the Klingons might actually be in league with Harrison and would open fire on the _Enterprise,_ Admiral Marcus captained the _Vengeance_ into the Neutral Zone as backup _._ Shortly after Marcus arrived, the _Enterprise_ experienced a warp core malfunction, which allowed Harrison to escape. Harrison boarded the _Vengeance,_ killed Marcus with his bare hands, and used the warship’s weapons to attack the _Enterprise,_ presumably to prevent the crew from reporting back to Starfleet Command _._ The _Enterprise_ attempted to flee, but sustained major damage and dropped out of warp speed near Terra. Harrison followed, so the _Enterprise_ had no choice but to defend herself, managing to incapacitate the _Vengeance_ and kill Harrison in the process. The _Vengeance_ , crewless and damaged beyond repair, crashed into San Francisco. The _Enterprise_ avoided the same fate due to the quick actions of the engineering crew and Captain Kirk, who was injured during the fighting.

 

Jim stares at Spock.

 

“What the _fuck_?”

 

“It is a significantly altered version of events,” Spock agrees, which is, in Jim’s opinion, one of the biggest understatements of the year.

 

“It ignores the fact that Marcus was corrupted,” Jim says with a scowl, “And it doesn’t say _anything_ about Marcus wanting to sacrifice the _Enterprise_ to start a war with the Klingons.” (It also, to Jim’s relief, doesn’t mention anything about him climbing into a warp reactor. He doesn’t think he could handle it if the media knew _that_ story. )

 

“It does not,” Spock says. Jim looks at him incredulously.

 

“That doesn’t bother you?”

 

“It is a logical story to present to the public,” Spock says carefully, and the corners of his mouth tilt into their non-frown. “In the midst of such chaos, Starfleet wishes to maintain an image of stability. The true actions of Khan and Admiral Marcus would distort that image. However, the falsity of the report is severely disconcerting. In light of such a story and in light of recent events, I find myself deeply suspicious of any action or reassurance from the Starfleet admiralty.”

 

Jim takes a moment to untangle Spock’s meaning.

 

“You don’t trust the admirals,” he says finally. Spock inclines his head.

 

“I have never before encountered significant reason to doubt a Starfleet Admiral’s adherence to the regulations and limits of command. Such rules exist in order to ensure that this organization upholds the ideals of the Federation. It is illogical to defy such protocol.” Spock unfolds his hands, eyebrows slightly furrowed. “After our encounter with Khan and Admiral Marcus, it is apparent that some Starfleet Admirals no longer consider the regulations as important as they once did.”

 

Which is basically Spock for “the world isn’t nice, but I believed in Starfleet and the Federation, and not I’m not sure I do anymore.” There’s an unspoken “ _And that makes me very, very nervous_ ” hanging in the air.

 

Jim’s mind flashes involuntarily to the planet Niribu and his own blatant disregard for the Prime Directive. Spock hadn’t been too impressed with that decision, life-saving results aside. At the time, Jim thought _Spock_ just had a stick up his ass, but…when Jim really thinks about it, at its core his actions were no better than Marcus’s. Both of them violated major Starfleet regulations – regulations which exist to protect people and planets and new civilizations – because they thought they knew better.

 

Which is not, Jim realizes, an acceptable excuse. Merely a justification – and a justification that can be used for horrifying ends just as easily as it can be used for good ones. A justification that comes with great danger and responsibility.  

 

No wonder Pike had been angry. No wonder Spock had filed a report. Jim feels nausea creeping back up his throat. Pike hadn’t trusted him with the power he held as captain, not because Jim wasn’t good at his job, but because Pike knew he didn’t understand the difference between good leadership and playing god.

 

He swallows.

 

“Yeah,” Jim says faintly. Admiral Marcus violated a lot of Starfleet regulations and principles, and no one stopped him until it was too late. There’s no reason to believe that the current Starfleet admirals won’t do the same. That he won’t do the same. “I don’t trust the admirals either.”

 

_I don’t know what’s right anymore. I don’t trust myself._

 

They stare at each other for a moment.

 

It’s kind of terrifying, Jim thinks, to look at someone you think you can rely on and realize that neither of you trusts the world.

 

“So, this cover story,” Jim says finally, scrubbing his hands over his face and trying desperately to change the subject, “People believe it? I mean, a lot of shit went down – so lots of people have to know the story isn’t right.”

 

“The command crew of the _Enterprise_ is aware of events as they actually transpired,” Spock says carefully, “And Admirals Archer, Barnett, and Komack were responsible for our debriefings. It is also possible that the President of the Federation was informed of events.”

 

“There were a lot of people on the _Enterprise_ , Spock,” Kirk points out. “They know Starfleet’s official story isn’t right.”

 

“The reports from the _Enterprise_ were carefully edited,” Spock says, which Jim interprets as: _it was illogical to include certain details in our official reports, and I triple-checked every single one of them to make sure such details were left out._ “Additionally, all crew members signed confidentiality forms at their debriefings. Most of them, however, only know details which differ from the official story. As far as I am aware, only the bridge crew, Mr. Scott, Dr. McCoy, and Dr. Marcus know of the entire situation.”

 

“And you all signed confidentiality forms?”

 

“Affirmative.”

 

“That’s weird,” Jim says. “I don’t think I signed one.”

 

“As you are still primarily confined to a hospital bed, Dr. McCoy has kept further requests from the admiralty from you,” Spock informs him.

 

Jim snorts, imagining Bones threatening Admiral Komack with a hypospray. Normally he would be pissed about that, but after the admirals barged into his hospital room and wrung his brain when he could barely sit up, he’s been a bit too happy to avoid thinking about the questions he still needs to answer.

 

“You’d think they’d want me to sign a confidentiality form right away,” Jim says, although he _is_ stuck in a hospital, and Bones doesn’t allow paperwork in his room.

 

“As you are currently a resident at Starfleet Medical, I do not believe they have cause for immediate concern,” Spock says. Then he frowns. “Unless you plan on giving an interview?”

 

“God, _no_!” Jim says vehemently. He hates the media. Has ever since Tarsus IV, and even more so since the destruction of Vulcan. Spock relaxes minutely.

 

“There are a variety of rumors circulating among the press, as is natural,” Spock informs him. “But none have been confirmed or denied by Starfleet at this point.”

 

Jim lets his head fall back against the pillows with a groan.

 

“This is fucking messed up,” he says to the ceiling. He’s never been one for cover stories – misinterpretations and little white lies, fine, he’s used both to his advantage his whole life – but an entirely new story, a _cover_ – that he’s less comfortable with.

 

You can’t trust a façade, he thinks, mind flashing briefly to a colony slowly dying from starvation. On Tarsus IV they’d been told there was nothing to worry about – the crop failures were only temporary, Governor Kodos had a plan, no need to panic…

 

Jim shudders, feeling vaguely nauseated again.

 

“What if this all backfires?” he asks edgily. “We’re sitting here trying to pretend like we don’t want a war and aren’t ready for one, but a giant warship just crashed into the bay. What if the Klingons _know_ we violated the treaty and aren’t saying anything because they’re getting ready for their own attack? How do we know Khan wasn’t in league with the patrol that shot our shuttle down? Heck, what if the admirals are actually playing innocent because they _want_ a war and want to look like the good guys? Spock…”

 

Spock’s hand settles gently on Jim’s wrist.

 

“You are distressed,” Spock observes quietly. Fuck, Jim thinks. He kind of is. “There has been no indication thus far that the Klingons are actively seeking war with the Federation.”

 

Not exactly a comforting statement.

 

But Jim feels suddenly exhausted, so he’ll take it.

 

And what is the alternative, anyway? Reveal John Harrison’s true identity? Tell people that not only is the slightly crazed, highly intelligent super-soldier who destroyed San Francisco and London still alive, but he and seventy-two others like him are merely frozen away in a “secure location?” Confess that the _Enterprise_ violated the peace treaty with the Klingons on Starfleet’s orders? Destroy people’s trust in the Federation, when everyone is still reeling from the recent attacks as well as the destruction of Vulcan?

 

Jim blinks up at the ceiling, cold.

 

People can’t know. They can’t know that the recent destruction was their own doing – or rather, the result of their ancestors’ actions against super humans who didn’t know how to stop being soldiers. The families of Jim’s dead crew can’t know that the Admiral who swore to protect his officers willingly destroyed them. Was willing to destroy much more than he did.

 

Not now. Not in the aftermath and shock of so much loss and uncertainty. If people knew now, there would be panic. And more death. That’s what happened on Tarsus IV. 

 

It’s obscene.

 

There’s a long moment of silence, which Spock eventually breaks.

 

“You are concerned,” he observes, studying Jim intently.

 

_Ha._

 

“Kind of.” Jim sinks back in the pillows, wishing he wasn’t so exhausted. He’s too tired to deal with reality. He’s been…okay, maybe avoiding it a little, letting Bones hide his paperwork and fuss over him. He can’t anymore. Not when reality’s staring him in the face and so many people are dead.

 

“The decisions of the Admiralty are not your responsibility,” Spock says, and Jim thinks maybe there’s a hint of worry in his voice. “You must focus on your recovery.”

 

God, does Jim know that. The sooner he’s out of bed, the sooner he’ll be able to deal with all this shit and actually help. He’s useless when he’s dependent on Bones to help him to the bathroom.

 

“Yeah,” he says heavily. He blinks and can’t find the energy to open his eyes again. He’s so tired.

 

“Rest, Captain,” Spock says quietly. Jim feels vaguely reassured by Spock’s presence as he sinks back into uneasy sleep.

 


	11. Chapter 11

James T. Kirk is going to be the death of him.

 

Leonard has suspected this since his first week at the Academy, when Jim decided that the two of them simply needed to be best friends and re-named Leonard “Bones.”

 

He was more or less convinced after the _Narada_ incident.

 

Now, he’s certain.

 

“You are an _infant_!” Leonard says exasperatedly as Jim yelps and slaps a hand over his neck. Ever since Jim started physical therapy five days ago, he’s been restless and more annoying than usual. “It’s one hypo, Jim!”

 

“And I don’t want it,” Jim says stubbornly, hands still clasped over his neck. “You know I hate sedatives, they make my head fuzzy in the mornings.”

 

Leonard tries very hard not to growl.

 

“You’re not sleeping enough,” he says, very patiently. “I’ve been tracking your charts, you know. You only sleep in three-hour segments, and that’s usually after a PT session or a headache.”

 

“ _So_?” Jim snaps, which is kind of unbelievable. “I go _back_ to sleep eventually, don’t I? I’ve got all day to sleep, ‘cept for PT. Why does it even matter?”

 

“Because it isn’t normal, goddammit!” Leonard says, throwing his hands in the air. “I’m trying to get you discharged, Jim, like you keep _asking me to do every two goddamn hours._ That means you need to be able to function, and if you aren’t sleeping, you aren’t functioning!”

 

“I’m not sleeping because I’m stuck in a freaking hospital!” Jim protests loudly, with more vehemence than Leonard’s heard from him in a while.

 

“That’s not how Spock tells it,” Leonard snaps without really meaning to, because god _dammit_ Jim’s been difficult lately, “He’s been sitting with you every night, which you damn well know. Even Vulcans can spot a nightmare.”

 

Jim takes a deep breath and sinks back into the bed, glaring icily at Bones.

 

“Are we done?” he asks stiffly.

 

“Are you gonna let me give you this?” Leonard retorts, holding up the hypo. He tries to subtly scan Jim with the tricorder again. He’s been paranoid about infection ever since he let Jim out for the memorial – normally Leonard wouldn’t have let Jim outside until about now, when his immune system’s stronger. It’s a fine line, trying to take care of the kid’s mental health as well as his physical health. Both are fragile at the moment, not that Jim will acknowledge the former.

 

Jim grows visibly more frustrated.

 

“I. Don’t. Want. That,” he says, pointing at the hypo and emphasizing each word like he thinks Leonard’s a very small child.

 

“For god’s sake!” Leonard nearly shouts. “I’m trying to _help_ you, Jim!”

 

“Is a sedative medically necessary?” Jim asks sharply.

 

“Not yet, dammit, but if you keep – ”

 

“Then I don’t want it.” There’s a hint of command steel in that tone, something Leonard hasn’t heard in over a month. He swallows, heart clenching painfully at the unexpected glimpse of Captain Kirk.

 

“Jim.” Leonard takes a deep breath, tries to step back from the situation for a minute and look at the whole puzzle. “I know you’re tired. What’ve you got against a good night’s sleep?”

 

“Just because I wake up a lot doesn’t mean I’m tired,” Jim tries stubbornly. He deflates a little at Leonard’s Unimpressed Glare. “I mean, it’s just nightmares.” Jim shrugs, avoiding eye contact. “I got them after the _Narada_ too. It’s normal.”

 

Leonard thinks he knows what this is. He’s seen it before – Jim shows a surprising amount of tact and sensitivity when he thinks someone else is in distress, but when it comes to his own state of mind, he doesn’t think the same rules apply. He’ll flirt and complain and occasionally flaunt his cleverness, but when it comes to serious issues – when Jim needs help – he’ll hide.

 

And the more Leonard pushes, the more Jim’ll run. But the less people push, the more Jim’ll suffer.

 

“…Goddammit,” Leonard groans. He’s way too old for this, and he’s not even forty, for god’s sake. “Just ‘cause nightmares _are_ expected after the hell you went through doesn’t mean you should walk around suffering from sleep deprivation, you idiot.”

 

Jim relaxes a tiny bit.

 

“I don’t _feel_ sleep-deprived, Bones,” he says earnestly, which isn’t reassuring in the slightest. Jim’s idea of “sleep-deprived” is more like “I haven’t slept in seventy-two hours.” Bones found that out in the aftermath of Nero’s defeat.

 

Bones just looks at Jim, helpless. Jim frowns. Then sighs, his defensive edges softening.

 

“Look,” Jim averts his eyes, hands gripping the blankets. “I keep waking up in the night, you’re right about that. But I…want to.” Leonard stares. Jim ignores him. “It’s better if I can wake up,” he says haltingly. “Even when I’m not dreaming, I wake up. If I sleep for too long, I…I don’t know. I don’t like it.” He crosses his arms defensively and glares at a point just over Leonard’s shoulder.

 

There’s an uneasy feeling in Leonard’s chest. Not for the first time, he wonders just how much Jim remembers – if there’s something in Jim’s subconscious that recalls the moments spent in a body bag. He won’t ask, although he can’t help but wonder, guiltily, what death feels like.

 

But those thoughts are still too painful. And anyway, Jim’s not ready to discuss stuff that heavy, and might never want to. He’s still too fragile, both emotionally and physically; he smiles a lot, but Leonard knows it’s a mask.

 

He notes that Jim’s anxiety indicator has jumped several levels, and releases a slow breath.

 

“Alright,” he says finally, pocketing the hypospray. “No sedatives.”

 

Jim blinks.

 

“Really?” He sounds slightly incredulous, which is a little insulting. Despite all Jim’s claims to the contrary, Leonard’s not sadistic – he’s not going to force Jim into taking a sedative he doesn’t want, not when Jim’s clearly uncomfortable enough with the idea that his anxiety indicators have turned yellow.

 

“You’re right,” Leonard says instead. “It’s not medically necessary, and I won’t force you to take one until it is. But it’d better not get that far, y’hear me?” He looks at Jim fiercely, refusing to break eye contact. “If you need to talk, I’m here. Or talk to Spock, if it makes you feel better. Or Uhura, or – heck – anyone.”

 

Jim looks uncertain for a moment. Then he smiles, all flashing teeth and Kirk charm. It would have fooled anyone except Leonard.

 

“Bones, that’s sweet,” he says playfully. “Does Spock know you just volunteered him for emotional counseling?”

 

Leonard throws his hands in the air with a noise of frustration. Jim, the asshole, giggles.

 

“Get some rest,” Bones sighs, turning back to the door. He doesn’t looks back, but he knows Jim’s sticking his tongue out at him anyway.

 

* * *

 

A few days after the “hypo incident,” Leonard knocks loudly on Spock’s door at 2000 hours. The frantic chaos in the aftermath of the _Vengeance_ has finally slowed to something resembling order, so Spock doesn’t spend every damn evening locked up with the admirals anymore. Leonard hadn’t realized just how exhausted Spock had been until last week, when a well-rested Spock appeared at Starfleet Medical. (Though Leonard fully expects that the Vulcan’s idea of “rest” is more like “meditation and paperwork.”)

 

It is not Spock, however, who opens the door.

 

“Uhura,” Leonard says in surprise. She’s dressed casually in jeans and a purple t-shirt, which is so unusual that for a moment Leonard forgets what he was going to say. He’s only seen Uhura in uniform or dressed for clubbing. “Uh…I just wanted to talk to Spock. If this is a bad time – ”

 

“No, come in,” Uhura insists with a smile. “We just finished dinner – and we don’t really have any other plans, honestly.”

 

“This won’t take long,” Leonard says awkwardly, stepping in and letting Uhura close the door behind him. He feels bad for interrupting what’s obviously a private evening – everyone knows Uhura and Spock have barely seen each other since the _Vengeance_ crashed. It’s not unusual; everyone’s busy. Heck, the hospital’s still so full of victims that Leonard knows he wouldn’t have seen anyone if people didn’t keep dropping by to check on Jim.

 

“Doctor McCoy.” Spock steps out of the kitchen holding a dishtowel and a wet plate, one eyebrow slightly raised. “I did not anticipate your presence this evening.”

 

“I’m thinking of releasing Jim in a few days,” Leonard says, not bothering to beat around the bush. Spock never stops asking for updates. “I figured it’d be best to tell you in person, ‘cause the idiot’s been trying to hack into my PADD.”

 

Spock sets the plate and towel down on the counter with a slight frown.

 

“Has Jim developed enough strength to function on his own?” he asks.

 

“Not exactly,” Leonard admits. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you. He’s been doing well in PT; he can walk around for a reasonable amount of time and get up and down a few stairs. But if I release him, he’s gonna need someone to help him manage day-to-day housekeeping. And he’ll also need a way to get to his appointments.”

 

“Why release him if he’s still fairly weak?” Uhura asks, leaning against the counter. She doesn’t look accusatory – mostly just curious. Leonard hesitates, then heaves a sigh. If he can’t confide to these two, he won’t be able to confide to anyone.

 

Nothing like a mass-murdering terrorist to build trust, he thinks darkly.

 

“Jim’s never liked hospitals,” he says, which isn’t surprising information – but it’s not common knowledge, either. Jim hasn’t been severely injured since the _Narada_. “Frankly, medical’s starting to drive him nuts, and the last thing he needs right now is more anxiety. He’s gone from ‘barely able to walk’ to ‘barely able to sit still for a goddamn minute.’ He’s not sleeping well.” Leonard runs a hand through his hair. “Long story short, I think it’ll be better for his health if he can regain some independence. Bein’ in the hospital’s probably better for him physically, but not mentally.”

 

“Isn’t Jim’s apartment all the way across campus, though?” Uhura points out with a frown. “The shuttle stop on that end got destroyed by the _Vengance_. He won’t be able to get around.”

 

“The apartment adjacent to mine is currently unoccupied,” Spock says, before Leonard can get too worried. “I will speak to the housing center tomorrow morning and see that he is reassigned.”

 

“And Carol and I can get Sulu and Chekov to help move his stuff!” Uhura says, face lighting up with enthusiasm. Leonard and Spock look at her warily. “We should throw him a welcome home party! I can haul Scotty away from repairs for an evening, definitely. And Giotto mentioned the security team wanted to do something to show their thanks – and believe it or not, Keenser’s actually a really good baker, even though he doesn’t exactly eat much – I bet he’d make a cake if I asked – ”

 

The chirp of Leonard’s communicator interrupts her. Leonard flips it open, frowning.

 

“McCoy here.”

 

“Doctor!” Chekov’s unmistakable voice says, panicked. “I came to veesit ze Keptin like you asked, but he is being gone!”

 

“ _What_?” Leonard snaps.

 

“His bed is empty, sir. I think ze keptin is missing!”

 

“Call Giotto and tell him to get an _Enterprise_ security team assembled, stat,” Leonard growls, dashing to the door with Spock and Uhura on his heels. “Call in anyone else you can think of, but whatever you do, kid, don’t tell the nursing staff he’s missing yet. The last thing we need is a goddamn media party. I’ll be there in five minutes.” Leonard slams the communicator shut. “ _Goddammit, Jim._ ” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry sorry sorry. It's short and there's a cliffhanger. But never fear...chapter 12 is nearly complete, and it's the longest I've written for this story so far. :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bridge crew worries, and Spock not-worries. Jim's too smart for his own good.

Jim’s disappearance is not, according to Dr. McCoy, unexpected.

 

The fact that Dr. McCoy, Dr. Marcus, Lieutenant Sulu, Montgomery Scott, Ensign Chekov, most of the _Enterprise_ ’s security team, Nyota, and Spock have been unable to locate him, however, is.

 

“Nyota, ye can tell Dr. McCoy that he hasn’t been to one of the shuttle stops, at least not accordin’ to the stations’ security cameras,” Mr. Scott says breathlessly, skidding to a halt in Jim’s empty hospital room. It is the unofficial rendezvous of the search team, as Jim is not officially missing from Starfleet Medical.

 

“Damn,” Nyota mutters, a most unusual utterance for her, and one that is only employed when she is either particularly anxious or extremely pleased. On this occasion, it is the former. “So unless he walked off campus in his medical gown – which is unlikely – he’s _got_ to be in the building.”

 

A fact which would be much easier to confirm if the building’s security cameras had not mysteriously malfunctioned at the precise moment of Jim’s disappearance. Mr. Scott has already checked the feeds of the surrounding Starfleet buildings, and Jim has not, apparently, entered any of them. However, the security cameras’ history for this particular medical building is still inaccessible, despite the fact that Spock has been trying to access it for the past 43.2 minutes.

 

“No luck yet, Spock?” Mr. Scott asks, looking to the corner of the room where Spock’s computer is wired in to the hospital’s security system.

 

“Negative,” Spock replies sharply. The fact that Spock has not yet made progress is quite obvious, as Jim is still missing.

 

“I’ll find ye that Russian whizkid, I’m sure the three of us can figure something out if we work tagether,” Mr. Scott says. A logical suggestion.

 

As he leaves, Dr. McCoy and Dr. Marcus enter.

 

“I’m going to kill him,” Dr. McCoy says, throwing his PADD on Jim’s empty bed and sinking into a vacant chair.

 

“We just heard back from Giotto,” Dr. Marcus explains. “Captain Kirk’s not in any of the storage rooms either. Any luck, Spock?”

 

“Negative,” Spock says, for the second time. It is inefficient to answer the same question multiple times – and when the answer is unsatisfactory, it is also degrading to human morale.

 

“We’ll find him, Spock,” Nyota says gently from the chair next to Jim’s bed, looking up from her communicator. It chirps before Spock can answer her.

 

“Sulu here,” the lieutenant’s voice crackles through the communicator. “Chekov and I just finished searching the roof – he’s not here either.”

 

“Well, good work anyway,” Nyota says, ignoring Dr. McCoy’s loud groan. “Come back here, we should make another list of places he could be.”

 

“Has Commander Spock made any progwess?” Chekov’s voice asks. Spock stills.

 

“No, not yet,” Nyota says hastily. “Actually, Scotty just went looking for you, Chekov. We could use some more computer geniuses down here.”

 

“ _Da_ , we vill be there soon!”

 

“I’m not a computer genius,” Lieutenant Sulu’s voice says faintly in the background before the communicator closes.

 

“Leonard.” Spock glances up – Dr. Marcus is looking with concern at Dr. McCoy, who is gripping his hair in a manner that Spock knows is particularly painful for a human. “Are you alright?”

 

“I need alcohol, dammit,” Dr. McCoy growls. “And I need Jim to get his ass back in bed. You gettin’ anywhere yet, Spock?”

 

“Dr. McCoy,” Spock says, very calmly. “While the ingestion of an alcoholic substance may inhibit your neurotransmitters and prevent you from perceiving the hairs you are pulling out of your scalp, it will in no way aide us in locating Jim. As you do not have a degree in computer science and therefore have nothing intelligent to offer me at this moment, I suggest you remain silent.”

 

A brief moment of the requested silence is all Spock gets.

 

“Look, you vegetable-fed robot,” McCoy splutters, standing up angrily, “Just ‘cause you can’t figure out what Jim or who-the-fuck-ever did to the system doesn’t mean – ”

 

 “Leonard,” Nyota whispers, tugging on McCoy’s arm. She is not out of Vulcan hearing range. “Just leave him alone. We’re all worried – ”

 

“ _Worried?_ ” Dr. McCoy says, at such a decibel that Spock holds back a wince; the doctor shakes Nyota off and starts pacing restlessly around the room. Dr. Marcus steps hastily out of his way. “I don’t know what that goddamn idiot was thinking. He doesn’t even have _clothes_ , for god’s sake! He usually tries to get released early from Medical, but I thought this time he might’ve actually listened and stayed put, considering this is the closest he’s ever come to – ”

 

McCoy breaks off rather suddenly.

 

Spock finds that he can no longer focus on his task. He stands up, ignoring the looks of wary concern from Nyota and Dr. Marcus.

 

“I am going to locate Mr. Scott,” he says stiffly, and quickly exits the room.

 

Spock makes it down five flights of stairs before he finally stops walking. It occurs to him that, if he truly intended to speak with Mr. Scott, Nyota could have simply summoned him with her communicator – but Spock finds he does not particularly care that his given reason for leaving the room was entirely illogical. His focus on the security system was quite disrupted by Dr. McCoy’s strong emotions. As Spock’s shields are not at optimum strength, it was prudent to discreetly remove himself from such an environment before his control faltered.

 

Spock realizes that he is standing motionless in a deserted stairwell, and has been for the past 36.2 seconds. He proceeds through the nearest door and finds himself in a reasonably busy medical hallway – then stops again, realizing that he does not, in fact, have any idea where he is going.

 

He should return to Jim’s room and assist Mr. Scott and Ensign Chekov in accessing the security cameras. But the idea, for reasons unclear, gives his stomach the false sensation that it is twisting itself into a knot. He does not particularly desire to bring the security cameras back online and access their history, regardless of the fact that it is the most logical way to ascertain Jim’s whereabouts.

 

He wants to personally search the hospital for Jim.

 

Spock is so absorbed in his thoughts that he does not realize he is standing just around a blind corner. A young, blonde nurse carrying a tray of ice chips rushes around the corner and promptly collides with Spock, uttering a loud shriek as the tray crashes to the floor. Spock grabs her waist on reflex, barely managing to prevent her from falling as he staggers backwards.

 

“Oh,” the nurse gasps, clutching at Spock’s biceps. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you standing – ” she tilts her head up to look at Spock for the first time, and her voice stutters to a halt.

 

“Apologies are unnecessary,” Spock says stiffly, immediately releasing his grip. The nurse does not reciprocate. “I see now that I chose a less-than-optimal location to stand. You could not have seen me from your position, and as such, a collision was unavoidable.”

 

“Well, I’m sorry anyway,” the nurse says with a slight giggle. Perhaps Spock is mistaken, but it seems to take her an unnecessarily long time (15.7 seconds) to remove her hands from Spock’s biceps and stand on her own. She brushes off her uniform and then looks at the ice scattered on the hallway floor.

 

“I should clean this up,” she says with another short laugh, glancing at Spock from under her eyelashes.

 

“I can assist, if necessary,” Spock offers uncomfortably. It does not seem logical to leave her to clean up a mess he had a partial role in creating, and his experience with humans tells him that such a gesture can ensure no illogical resentment remains after a potentially frustrating incident.

 

“Oh, that’s very kind,” the nurse says with a wide smile. She steps a little closer, and Spock fights the urge to step back. Most humans do not intrude on his personal space in this manner, with the exception of Nyota and Jim. “There’s a supply closet two floors up; it’s got towels and cleaning supplies, you know, just in case the cleaning droids aren’t available. We can just grab a few towels and a mop – it won’t take long.”

 

Spock stares at her for a moment before coming to the logical conclusion.

 

“There is no need for both of us to go,” he says. “You may find a replacement tray of ice while I secure the means necessary to remove the ice from the hallway.”

 

“You sure you don’t need me to show you where the closet is?” the nurse asks.

 

“I am Vulcan. I am quite capable of locating a supply closet without assistance,” Spock says stiffly. “Additionally, I think it prudent to remind you that you are on duty. It is negligent and entirely irresponsible to spend your time mopping ice when there are patients which require your attention. I suggest you return to those patients immediately.”

 

Spock does not wait for her response, his message and logic quite clear. He turns and proceeds to the nearest staircase, climbing two floors as directed. There is no sense in utilizing the cleaning droids for a minor accident that Spock can easily rectify. When he arrives at the correct floor, a red-haired nurse at the nurse’s station glances at him, then does a double take.

“Can I help you?” he asks. Spock notes the man has a Scottish accent, and wonders briefly if Mr. Scott and Ensign Chekov are searching for their errant Science Officer. Spock resolves to return to Jim’s room immediately after mopping up the ice.

 

“I was instructed by a nurse on the fifth floor to retrieve a towel and mop from the supply closet,” Spock says.

 

“Ah, right – it’s around the corner, the last door on your left,” the nurse says, pointing. “I can grab it for you if you –  ” A sudden beeping noise from the nurse’s communicator interrupts him.

 

“That is not necessary,” Spock replies, and the nurse flashes him a brief smile before hurrying into a patient’s room. The floor is otherwise remarkably quiet.

 

Spock proceeds around the corner and locates the supply closet as instructed. The door does not have a sliding panel or a security code, so Spock merely turns the handle and steps inside.

 

Only to stop, utterly surprised.

 

“Spock?” Jim Kirk’s voice comes out hoarse, and he tilts his head up from where he is curled on the floor in the back corner of the closet, squinting against the sudden light from the hallway. He sounds bewildered, and Spock is hit with the strange urge to grab Jim by the waist and carry him back to his hospital bed. Spock blinks. On second thought, that is an illogical course of action.

 

“Wait here,” he says instead. Spock shuts the door and walks back up the hallway until he locates the nearest assistance unit. He quickly inputs an order for a cleaning droid on the fifth floor, which is – in the end – still an acceptably efficient way to ensure the ice does not remain melting in the hallway two floors down. He then returns to the closet and opens the door again.

 

Jim is still there, huddled on the floor between two mops and a metal bucket. He looks unusually pale in his flimsy hospital gown.

 

“Jim,” Spock says, releasing a careful breath. “The floor is not sanitary.”

 

Jim blinks at him. Spock notes an unusual redness in the whites of his eyes, and Jim’s hands, which are wrapped tightly around his knees, shake with intermittent tremors. Spock considers him for a moment before entering the closet and shutting the door, plunging the room into complete darkness.

 

“Lights, seventy-five percent,” Spock orders, and Jim comes back into view.

 

They stare at each other.

 

“How’d you find me?” Jim asks finally, scrubbing one hand over his face.

 

“It was, as humans say, ‘a complete accident,’” Spock replies, clasping both hands behind his back. “I did not anticipate encountering your presence in a little-used supply closet; although upon reconsideration, this fact is not entirely surprising. You are not the most logical of humans.”

 

The corner of Jim’s mouth twitches slightly.

 

“Yeah, well, someone’s got to keep you on your toes,” he says, but the comment lacks its usual mirth. Spock’s lips tilt into a non-frown.

 

“If you are referring to the fact that you are a constant source of fascination for me, then you would be correct,” he says slowly. “You have a history of irrational and spontaneous actions, most of which, I have observed, are backed by sound yet unorthodox reasoning. Do you have such reasoning for your recent disappearance from your hospital bed?”

 

“How furious is Bones?” Jim asks with a sigh, ignoring Spock’s question entirely. He rubs his neck as he looks up at Spock, frowning. “And sit down, would you? You’re towering over me.”

 

Spock experiences a brief moment of confusion – not unusual around humans, and especially not unusual around Jim Kirk – but elects to ignore the colloquialism for the time being. He lowers himself into a cross-legged position opposite Jim.

 

“Dr. McCoy is concerned about your well-being,” Spock says. “As are Nyota, Mr. Scott, Dr. Marcus, Ensign Chekov, and Lieutenant Sulu. I must also admit that I experienced some degree of anxiety upon learning of your absence.”

 

“Shit,” Jim groans, dropping his face into his hands. “There’s a fucking search party, isn’t there?”

 

“You are not officially missing from the hospital,” Spock replies evasively.

 

“Oh really?” Jim lifts his head from his hands, his eyes glinting in the dim light. His tone has slipped into something dangerous. “There seem to be a lot of things that didn’t officially happen to me. Such as climbing into a warp reactor and, you know, _dying._ ”

 

Spock sits very still. It is suddenly difficult to breathe.

 

“How did you acquire – ”

 

“No one told me, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Jim says, voice tight. “I guessed. And your face just confirmed it.”

 

Spock blinks. And feels distinctly uneasy. He has never seen Jim this upset before.

 

“How, then, did you hypothesize –”

 

“That guy who blew up London?” Jim says in a rush, cutting off Spock’s question. “The one who sent a note to Marcus and said ‘John Harrison’ forced him to do it? Well, he’s got a daughter who, until recently, was going to die from some incurable disease that she contracted off-world. Except the same day her dad set off that bomb, she miraculously recovered. I read about it in a random article from a London paper. That Bones bookmarked.”

 

Jim reaches behind him and picks up a PADD lying on the floor.

 

“He left it in my room this morning, and I left my temporary one at PT, so I just used his. About and hour after I found that article, I was going through his mail – and guess what I found? A note he sent you yesterday telling you to ‘feed the goddamn tribble.’ Except, you know, Bones hates tribbles, and I know _you_ don’t have one. No one in their right minds owns one of those things, not after that Starbase disaster a few years back. Yet apparently, you have one in your apartment right now. That Bones knows about. And wants you to feed.”

 

Jim glares at him, hands shaking very faintly.

 

“That girl didn’t miraculously recover – medical miracles don’t just appear out of thin air. Khan forced her father to set off a bomb in the middle of London, and people just don’t do that unless they’re desperate. And _you_ don’t just pick up random pets and take them home with you, and even if you did, you sure as hell wouldn’t tell Bones about them – and even if you did tell Bones, there’s no way in fuck that he’d remind you to keep them alive. There was a dead tribble in sickbay when – ”

 

Jim swallows, breaking off.

 

“I haven’t been thinking about the warp chamber, you know?” He lets out a sharp laugh, curling in on himself, and Spock fights the urge to put his hand on Jim’s shoulder. “With the crew deaths and the _Vengeance_ crashing and trying to get my legs to work, it just – it wasn’t worth thinking about. But I…I thought about it, after reading that. Really thought about it. And I – I remember – ” Jim breaks off with a strangled noise, both hands balled into fists. “ _God._ I felt my body – I – I didn’t just pass out, did I, Spock?”

 

There is a hidden plea in Jim’s words which is impossible to ignore. It says: “ _tell me I’m wrong.”_

 

Spock does not want to do this, to give Jim this final piece, confirmation of the knowledge that is already making Jim’s shoulders hunch miserably together. But he does not really have a choice.

 

“No,” he says, gently. “You did not pass out or fall into a coma. You were…deceased.”

 

It is poor choice of words. It does not describe a limp hand sliding slowly down glass – or the sight of Jim’s corpse in a body bag.

 

“ _Fuck_ you,” Jim gasps, forehead pressed tightly into his fists. He shudders. “Bones said you went after him to put him in custody. But that wasn’t the only reason, was it? He…he had something, some way to…”

 

“Khan’s blood possesses the ability to stimulate powerful cellular regeneration,” Spock says slowly. “Shortly after your…body…was taken to Sickbay, the dead tribble Dr. McCoy previously injected with Khan’s blood returned to life. Dr. McCoy froze you in a cryo tube until I apprehended Khan, at which point he used the blood to repair your irradiated cells and restore your bodily functions.”

 

Spock does not tell Jim that the first injection had barely worked. That Jim had been on full life support for over seven hours, still technically a corpse, as McCoy tried different doses, eventually developing a serum that could repair the damage at the appropriate pace. That Jim remained silent for the next six point eight days, his brain activity nearly non-existent, as his body fluctuated between raging fevers and dangerously low temperatures. That when his brain activity finally spiked, the sensors registered intolerable pain. That McCoy had been forced to place him in a medically-induced coma in order to stop the thrashing.

 

Jim lets out a strangled noise, head still bowed against his knees.

 

“Fuck you,” Jim repeats, voice cracking. “D’you know how many people died, Spock?” He lifts his face, eyes glinting with unshed tears. “Almost _four hundred thousand_ people – and I – I’m…”

 

Alive. Breathing. Weak and unsteady and utterly drained in many ways, but _alive_.

 

“You are here,” Spock says quietly, and gives in to the urge to grip Jim’s shoulder. Jim looks up at him from under wet eyelashes. “I am grateful for this.”

 

Jim lets out a weak laugh. And then – without warning – he surges forward and buries his face in Spock’s shoulder. Spock stiffens in shock for 2.5 seconds. Then, tentatively, he curls his arms around Jim’s back, which is shuddering with silent, suppressed sobs.

 

Spock does not know what to say.

 

4.7 minutes pass in silence before Jim’s shaking gradually lessens. Eventually, he lifts his head from Spock’s damp shoulder, fingers tightening around Spock’s elbow before he levers himself back into a sitting position.

 

“Sorry,” Jim says hoarsely, looking at his knees. Based on the tightness around his lips and the pale cast to his face, Spock surmises that Jim is exhausted.

 

“It was no inconvenience,” Spock assures. Jim simply shakes his head and leans back against the wall, regarding Spock with red, slightly swollen eyes. Spock hesitates before asking. “Am I correct in assuming that the discovery of your previously suppressed memories prompted your disappearance from your room?”

 

“You try remembering something like that and then – and then suspecting – I’d like to see you stay put,” Jim says defensively, before taking a breath to steady himself. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” There’s an undercurrent of hurt in his voice which makes Spock feel immediately – and irrationally – guilty.

 

“It was an attempt to help you,” Spock explains carefully. “Given the trauma of recent events, it seemed unnecessary – as well as, in the words of Dr. McCoy, ‘downright cruel’ – to immediately provide you with further upsetting information.”

 

“Upsetting?” Jim’s voice increases dramatically in volume, his face incredulous. Spock realizes he has somehow misspoken. “Spock, _I’m_ the one who fucking died! I’ve got a right to know!”

 

“Neither Dr. McCoy nor myself planned to keep the information from you permanently,” Spock hastens to explain. “We merely thought it prudent that you be allowed to focus on your recovery without distraction.”

 

“Oh sure, that’s all. And I suppose you didn’t want me to accidently let something slip to the brass while I was recovering, did you?” Jim says angrily, and scowls when Spock does not answer. “I’m not an idiot. I know there’s nothing about this on the official reports. What’d you do, hack all the _Enterprise_ ’s security cameras?”

 

“All evidence of your death and subsequent revival was erased, save for the existence of the tribble,” Spock informs him, hastening to ease Jim’s worry that others might know of his death.

 

Far from reassuring Jim, however, this piece of information seems to make him curl in on himself further. He sinks back against the wall.

 

“Fuck you,” Jim says again, voice weary and nearly a whisper. “Fuck you and Bones and – and – ” He swallows. “You could all get thrown in prison for this.”

 

“Yes,” Spock agrees solemnly.

 

Jim stares at his hands for a long moment. His lips twist against a single tear which slides down his cheekbone.

 

“I never thought – you didn’t – ” he puts his face in his hands with a sharp laugh. “People aren’t supposed to come back from the dead,” he whispers.

 

They are not. They should not. And yet Jim is here.

 

Spock finds he has no answer to that.  

 

* * *

 

“Where. Have. You. _Been?_ ”

 

“Doctor McCoy, please desist in shouting – ”

 

“Shut up you hobgoblin, I’ll deal with you later.” Dr. McCoy elbows his way past Spock and grabs Jim, who is standing in the doorway of his hospital room. It is still physically apparent that has Jim recently shed tears. Dr. McCoy looks at him closely, then shakes Jim briefly by his shoulders. “ _Goddammit_ man, what the fuck have I said about your recovery? I said that you need to actually _listen_ to me this time, not sneak off by yourself before you’ve even been goddamn cleared – ”

 

“I’m sorry, okay?” Jim protests, pulling McCoy’s hands away. McCoy blinks, momentarily thrown by the apology, and Jim straightens his medical gown with a scowl. “Jeez Bones, I didn’t even plan on leaving the building! You don’t need to throw a fucking search party just because I was out of your sight for a few hours!”

 

Mr. Scott, Ensign Chekov, and Lieutenant Sulu, who are gathered around the computer, all wince as McCoy’s face turns an alarming shade of red. Nyota takes advantage of the second of silence to speak into her communicator. Everyone looks at her as it crackles to life.

 

“Giotto, it’s Uhura – Spock found him and brought him back. He’s safe,” she says calmly.

 

“ _You found the Commander too? Where the hell were they?_ ” Giotto’s voice asks. Spock experiences a momentary pang of guilt for not informing Nyota of his whereabouts sooner.

 

“Uh – not sure yet. I’ll fill you in on the details later, if it’s appropriate. You can send the security team home now.”

 

“ _Sure thing, Lieutenant. Tell the Captain not to wander off anymore._ ”

 

“I don’t think I’ll need to, but thanks,” Nyota says dryly before shutting off the communicator.

 

“No, you goddamn won’t need to,” McCoy agrees, voice calmer but still dangerously fierce. He turns back to Jim. “Jim, get your ass back in bed this instant. I don’t want you to even _twitch_ until I come get you tomorrow morning, you hear me?”

 

“Yes mom,” Jim mutters under his breath, not quietly enough to escape Vulcan ears. As Dr. Marcus and Nyota help Jim into bed, determinedly not engaging him in conversation pertaining to his recent absence, Spock grasps Dr. McCoy’s elbow and pulls him outside the room.

 

“What the hell, you green-blooded menace, I’m not finished – ”

 

“Dr. McCoy,” Spock interjects, very firmly. They are alone in the hallway, but Spock lowers his voice anyway and elects for the direct approach. “Jim knows.”

 

“I – what?” McCoy stops fuming for a moment, looking at Spock with an expression akin to someone recently stunned. Then he lets out a loud groan. “ _Goddammit._ ”

 

“We were planning to tell him within the next four weeks,” Spock points out logically. McCoy glares at him.

 

“I _know that_ , dammit, but that’s the point. We were planning to tell him.” McCoy sighs, suddenly looking much older than he did mere minutes previously. “I suppose he figured it out himself?”

 

“After considerable reflection and hacking into your PADD, yes,” Spock confirms. “This is not, admittedly, an entirely unexpected course of events, although it was not a course I thought likely to occur.”

 

“Wait, you thought Jim _might_ figure it out, and you didn’t tell me?” McCoy sounds illogically outraged.

 

“I assumed you would anticipate such an occurrence yourself. Obviously I overestimated your intelligence – a mistake I do not commonly make.”

 

“You bastardized son of a – you know what, never mind,” McCoy seethes. “Since you _apparently_ thought Jim might figure out his own death himself, d’you think anyone else could figure it out?” The anger in the doctor’s voice has given way to worry.

 

“I do not believe we need to be concerned that others could come to the same conclusion,” Spock says.

 

“Are you sure?” McCoy presses, voice low. Spock nods.

 

“Within an acceptable margin for error, yes.”

 

“Acceptable margin for – Spock, _no one_ else can figure it out, dammit!”

 

“They will not, Doctor,” Spock says firmly, before the doctor’s blood pressure can achieve a dangerous level for a human. “Jim’s hypothesis was formed based primarily on his personal memories of the event in question, as well as his extensive knowledge of your character and mine. As no one else possesses such memories and knowledge, there is only a 0.446 percent chance that any other individual could come to the same conclusion.”

 

“You calculated the – fine,” McCoy growls reluctantly. “I’ll take your word for it – don’t expect me to do it again – ”

 

“I rarely expect you to agree with anything I say, Doctor. You are a highly illogical human.”

 

“Shut up,” McCoy says impatiently. “Is Jim…how’d he take it?” He glances back at Jim’s doorway, features softening with concern.

 

Spock exhales slowly.

 

“About as well as we expected, Doctor. I believe he left his hospital bed this evening in an attempt to – as humans say – ‘get some space.’ I recommend that he take time away from Starfleet in order to process recent events. This is a common way to stimulate mental healing in humans, is it not?”

 

“Kind of,” McCoy says, but he nods slowly. “It’d be good for him to get out of San Francisco for a while. I just don’t know where to send him. He hates Riverside – going back to his mom’s house only stresses him out.”

 

Spock nods.

 

“I believe then, Doctor, that I have a solution to your problem.”

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim leaves the hospital.

Bones doesn’t make an appearance in Jim’s room until 1400 the next day. Which is probably a good thing, because Jim wakes up with the strange sense that the world isn’t quite right before remembering _oh yeah, I died._ He’s sick of waking up and realizing that no, things aren’t the way they should be, and no, he’s really not okay with that.

 

By the time Bones visits, however, he’s managed to pull himself together. His physical therapy session helped. Jim always does better when he has something to focus on, even if his body’s weakness frustrates him to no end. A month ago he could do practically anything he wanted – now it’s an accomplishment when he walks twice around the PT room and climbs a flight of stairs. Still, he’d rather be angry at his body than stuck in bed. And oddly enough, he gets a weird kind of satisfaction out of pushing himself to his physical limits. He knows he’s making himself stronger.

 

Jim’s back in bed, finishing lunch and about to start a game of virtual chess with Spock, when Bones enters.

 

“Right,” the doctor says, tossing a grey Starfleet uniform on the end of Jim’s bed, “Put that on. You’re leaving.”

 

Jim pushes his lunch tray away slowly, wondering if he heard right.

 

“Leaving?” he asks cautiously, “As in ‘discharged?’” After last night, he felt sure Bones would extend his hospital stay, not shorten it.

 

“Released from the hospital, not from medical leave,” Bones says irritably, so, okay, Jim doesn’t think he’s been forgiven for his little stunt last night. He’s still not going to apologize. “You’re getting out of San Francisco on medical orders, so hurry up. Archer wants to talk to you before you go.”

 

“What?”

 

“Clothes.” Bones picks them up and shoves them into Jim’s arms. “Put them on _now_.”

 

Still in a mild state of shock, Jim obeys without really thinking about it, struggling out of his T-shirt and sweatpants. He wonders just what the doctor expects him to do when he gets out of the hospital. Bones can’t seriously send Jim back to Iowa, right? But that’s the only place away from the city that Jim can think to go, besides the _Enterprise._ Jim’s not sure he can get to Riverside on his own – and the house has been empty since Winona’s last shore leave, he’ll have to clean it and get the power turned back on because he wasn’t planning on going back there and – and he hates to admit it to himself, but he really can’t handle that kind of stress right now, and dammit he hates Riverside –

 

“Kid.” Bones appears at Jim’s elbow, his voice firm. Jim realizes belatedly that he’s frozen on the bed with his shirt half on. “Breathe,” Bones instructs gruffly, one hand brushing Jim’s shoulder. “I’ve got everything figured out, okay? You’re not going to Riverside.”

 

Jim takes a deep breath, anxiety he didn’t realize he had leeching slowly from his shoulders.

 

“Where’m I going?” he asks finally, tugging his shirt on. Bones hands him the grey Starfleet pants.

 

“Tell you later; we’ve got to move. Your meeting with Archer is in – ” he glances at his watch “ – fifteen minutes.”

 

Jim’s stomach does a somersault.

 

“ _Fifteen_?”

 

“Yeah.” Bones looks at him, and his expression goes from irritated to slightly guilty. “Sorry. I would’ve told you earlier, but this is kinda last-minute…”

 

Jim’s palms start to sweat. He feels like an idiot as he pulls on his boots – new, his last ones must’ve been destroyed in the – he can’t think about that now. He shoves them on and runs a hand through his messy hair. He’s leaving. Crap. He can’t seem to wrap his mind around the idea. Yes, he’s been asking to get out of the hospital since the moment he woke up – he hates it here. But now that he’s actually leaving, going to talk to an admiral and walk around outside, he feels suddenly panicky. It’s all happening too fast. He thought he’d have more time to prepare, or…or something.

 

“You alright?” Bones looks closely at Jim’s face, eyes narrowed. Jim swallows and gets out of his hospital bed for the last time.

 

“I’m fine,” he says. He just doesn’t appreciate this sudden jarring of reality, no matter how impulsive he normally is. Bones could’ve told him he was getting released today.

 

McCoy lets out a long breath as Jim straightens his uniform, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles.

 

“Look, I’m sorry this’s all happening at once,” Bones ventures, looking a little uncomfortable. “It was my plan from the beginning to send you on vacation somewhere, and after last night, I thought it’d be a good idea to speed the process along. Spock came up with a way to get you outta the city, and – well, we needed to work fast and keep it quiet. The goddamn media’s still trying to get an interview with you, and the second they hear you’re outta the hospital – ”

 

“Okay,” Jim interrupts forcefully. Really, what else is there to say? His life’s just insane. “What am I meeting Archer about?”

 

Bones clearly hesitates over the abrupt change in subject. Jim takes the opportunity to open the door and step into the hallway.

 

“No idea,” the doctor admits, hastily following Jim into the hall. “Archer told me an hour ago that he wanted to talk to you before you leave.”

 

“I assume you didn’t tell him I was getting released until an hour ago?” Jim asks dryly.

 

“Damn straight,” Bones grumbles. The man has no shame. “Otherwise they’d never let you go. Stupid brass doesn’t understand the meaning of ‘recovery’…”

 

Jim just sighs and lets Bones grumble to himself as they reach the end of the hallway and enter the lift. Personally, he thinks Archer’s got a right to be upset – Jim’s not exactly happy about his medical orders either. Starfleet needed every officer it could get _before_ the Vengeance crashed into the bay. The Federation hasn’t even dealt with all the repercussions of the _Narada_ , and now…

 

There’s too much work to do. It feels wrong to even think about leaving San Francisco right now, no matter how tired Jim is.

 

The lift pings to a stop at the first floor, and Jim leads the way out of Starfleet Medical. There’s a Starfleet hovercar parked outside. McCoy gets in on the driver’s side and Jim climbs into the shotgun seat.

 

Things hadn’t felt this hopeless after the _Narada_ , Jim thinks, as Bones starts the car and heads across campus towards the main building. Then, Jim had felt better about his role in events. Vulcan was gone, but at least Nero hadn’t destroyed any other planets – and more importantly, the threat had been neutralized. Jim had gone after Nero, and he’d _won_. Now, though – now, when Jim sees the destruction around him and remembers it was put into motion by Starfleet itself, he feels vaguely sick.

 

He’d been the commanding officer when things finally went to shit. He was the one with responsibility, crazy admirals and psycho terrorists aside. Jim knows he didn’t get everything right. He needs to do more than make sure the _Enterprise_ recovers. He needs to do his own poking around and figure out what remains of Section 31. He needs to find out who knew what Marcus was up to and how the hell he got away with what he did, and Jim should really ask Pike what –

 

Jim closes his eyes, swallowing hard.

 

Bones is right, really. He’s not ready to do what he needs to do, and that’s almost as distressing as the thought of all his mistakes. He just feels – scattered, like he’s stretched in ten places at once, doing whatever he can to make it to the next day. It’s like he’s stuck permanently in that moment when the _Enterprise_ went hurtling towards earth; he feels surrounded by a world that doesn’t make sense, and if he makes one wrong move or doesn’t act quickly enough, things will shatter to pieces.

 

He doesn’t know what he’s doing or what he should do. He doesn’t know how to fix himself, and he doesn’t know how to fix anyone else either.

 

The hovercar glides to a halt outside the main Starfleet building. Bones fidgets while Jim lets himself out.

 

“Archer’ll be in his office,” Bones says, leaning out the window as Jim carefully starts up the steps to the building. “I’ll wait in the lobby – find me when you’re done, okay?” Jim waves to show he understands, then climbs the last few steps to the front doors.

 

He hasn’t been here in a while, not since Marcus gave him orders to pursue Khan. That feels like another lifetime. He shakes the thought aside and focuses on getting through security, which has been tightened to almost ridiculous levels since the attack on London. The only reason he doesn’t get pulled aside for a full-body pat down is because a security officer recognizes him.

 

Archer’s office is on the sixteenth floor. Jim takes the lift, but he’s still winded when he finally enters the office. Archer’s secretary glances at him briefly, then does a double take.

 

“Mr. Kirk,” she says with a nervous smile. “The admiral is expecting you. Head right back.”

 

Jim does, knocking tentatively on Archer’s door before letting himself in. Archer looks up from his PADD and gestures for Jim to sit in the chair across the desk.

 

“Kirk – have a seat.” Jim complies, his back as straight as he can make it. He doesn’t have Spock’s posture, but he hopes he looks respectful. “I know your doctor wants you out of here as soon as possible,” Archer says, “So I’ll get straight to the point. A panel of admirals met yesterday to discuss your rank.”

 

Jim’s stomach seems to drop through the floor. If Archer notices the blood drain from his face, he doesn’t comment.

 

“It wasn’t an easy decision to make,” Archer continues. “You’re still Starfleet’s youngest commanding officer by several years, and your current record tells us you need more experience. However, your recent actions during the confrontation with the _Vengeance_ proved that what you did during the _Narada_ incident wasn’t a fluke.” Archer gives him a considering look. “You’re inexperienced, yes, but you’ve got a hell of a lot of potential.”

 

Jim stares, hardly daring to breathe. He’s not sure if he’s hearing Archer correctly.

 

“We want to give you captaincy of the _Enterprise_ ,” Archer says, folding his hands on the desk and meeting Jim’s stare, “But there are several conditions. When you’ve been cleared by Medical to return to duty, you will serve briefly on three different starships and participate in various diplomatic and supply missions. You won’t have an official command post. Your job will be to observe other captains and first officers, and, if they deem it appropriate, you may take responsibility for various shifts and reports. The captains you serve with will send their analysis of your performance directly to me. In a years’ time, when the _Enterprise_ should be ready to ship out again, another panel will evaluate you and decide whether or not to confirm your captaincy.”

 

Jim blinks at Archer, blank relief warring with swiftly growing anxiety. It’s more than he expected, really – more than he thinks he deserves right now. But damn, he’d like a straight answer. If only it was _yes_ or _no_ , something concrete – but Jim recognizes a second (maybe this is his third) chance when he sees it. He won’t complain.

 

“Thank you, sir,” he manages, his voice hoarser than he’d like. Archer eyes him critically.

 

“I want you to understand that this isn’t punishment, Kirk, even though most of us still don’t agree with your actions on Niribu,” Archer says slowly. “What you did against Marcus and Harrison was impressive. Yes, you made some mistakes, but you also kept a frankly horrifying situation from dissolving into pure chaos. Starfleet wouldn’t be here without you. But the other admirals and I want to ensure that when you take command again, you do so with the knowledge and preparation you didn’t get before.”

 

And if past events have taught him anything, Jim thinks, it’s that he needs all the preparation and knowledge he can get. It’s painful to admit to himself that a month ago, he would have angrily rejected Archer’s proposal.

 

“I understand, sir,” Jim says, the words heavy on his tongue. He really does understand – and a small, aching part of him wishes he didn’t. “But – with respect – I can’t take credit for handling the Harrison situation. It was team effort. We’d all be dead if it weren’t for my crew.”

 

To Jim’s surprise, Archer gives him a rare, genuine smile. Jim recognizes it – but he’s only ever seen it on one admiral’s face before. Pike’s face.

 

“You’re learning, Kirk,” Archer says, and maybe Jim’s imagining it, but he sounds almost – pleased. “Now, that doctor of yours will have my hide if you miss your shuttle. Get out of here, and don’t come back until you’ve healed. You look like crap.”

 

“Thanks,” Jim says dryly, before remembering (too late) who he’s talking to. Heat creeps into his cheeks, and he stands up in an awkward show of respect. “I mean – thanks for – the honesty, sir.” Flustered, he turns for the exit.

 

“Kirk?”

 

Jim stops just before the door, looking back in some trepidation. Archer considers him for a moment.

 

“Christopher Pike believed that someday, you’d be one of Starfleet’s best captains,” he says calmly, and Jim swallows around the tightening of his throat. “My advice to you – for what it’s worth – is to forget about Starfleet for a while. Medical leave’s not just about healing physically. Sometimes, as captain, you need to take a break from responsibility and let yourself feel like a normal human. Don’t push your crew away just because you’re out of the hospital and want to return to duty.”

 

Jim blinks, a little thrown. His impending recovery isn’t something he’s given a lot of thought to. In his mind, a release from the hospital means a return to work. He’s sure he’ll be able to keep up with the _Enterprise_ ’s repairs while he’s stranded wherever Bones plans to strand him. Scotty doesn’t mind sending long updates. Jim’s also fairly certain that there’s a shit ton of paperwork somewhere with his name on it.

 

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” Jim says finally. Archer nods and waves a hand in dismissal.

 

“Good. Now get out.”

 

Jim takes the lift to the ground floor and finds Bones waiting for him in the lobby.

 

“There you are!” The doctor practically leaps up from his seat and crosses to the lift, grabbing Jim’s arm before Jim has the chance to even open his mouth. “C’mon, we’ve got a shuttle to catch in twenty minutes. You need to change clothes.”

 

“Twenty minutes?” Jim asks, a little alarmed. “Bones, I haven’t packed or – ”

 

“Taken care of,” Bones interrupts gruffly, shoving open the door to the nearest restroom. He hands Jim a drawstring bag. “Clothes. Put them on.”

 

Jim takes the bag with a sigh, resigning himself to the fact that he has no idea what’s going on and won’t anytime soon. He picks an empty stall and emerges a few minutes later wearing jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. Bones, now similarly attired, hands him a pair of sunglasses.

 

“Put those on and pull the hood up,” Bones says. “We don’t need the media or anyone on the shuttle recognizing you.”

 

Too tired to argue, Jim does as he’s told. They leave the building together and start walking towards the nearest shuttle stop. While normally the short walk wouldn’t be a problem, Jim’s already tired from his discussion with Archer, and it’s a relief when they board the shuttle. He sinks gratefully into an empty seat, not even bothering to remove the sunglasses.

 

“Go to sleep, kid,” Bones says, taking the seat next to him. Jim thinks about protesting, but he can’t seem to keep his eyes open. He falls asleep before the shuttle even leaves.

 

He wakes with a start after they’ve landed. The harsh lighting causes him to squint, and he blinks groggily while trying to get his bearings. People are standing up and making their way to the exits; the shuttle looks half empty. Jim rubs his eyes with a groan and glances out the window. It’s almost dark outside – he can see some pine trees beyond the platform, but not much else.

 

“Sleep well?” Bones asks from his left. He glances casually at Jim, which is a really poor way to disguise the fact that the doctor’s itching to use his tricorder. “You didn’t even snore.”

 

“I don’t snore,” Jim says automatically.

 

“Keep tellin’ yourself that,” Bones says with a faint smile. He stands up and stretches his arms over his head. “C’mon, we’re the last ones. Let’s get off before the hobgoblin panics and thinks we took the wrong shuttle.”

 

“Wait – Spock’s here?” Jim hauls himself out of his seat, nonplussed. “What’s he doing here? And where are we, anyway?”

 

“Right now? Portland, Oregon,” Bones says, making his way to the shuttle’s door. He nods to the navigator before stepping out. Jim follows hastily.

 

“What the hell are we doing in Portland?” As far Jim knows, it’s just a particularly rainy city located about a thousand kilometers north of San Francisco. He’s never been.

 

“Technically, this is merely a stop on the way to our final destination,” a familiar voice says, and Jim turns to see that his First Officer has appeared out of practically _nowhere_.

 

“Spock,” Jim says stupidly. The Vulcan’s wearing dark jeans, a t-shirt, and a jacket. It looks utterly bizarre, considering that Jim’s never seen Spock out of uniform.

 

“Hello, Jim, Doctor McCoy,” Spock says, inclining his head briefly at Bones. “I have procured a rental hovercar. If you have no need to use the restrooms here, we may depart immediately.”

 

“I’m good,” Bones says, muffling a yawn. “But we’re gonna have to stop for takeout. I’m starving.”

 

Spock eyes the doctor.

 

“That is a grossly inaccurate statement, considering – ”

 

“Whoa, whoa, hang on!” Jim says in exasperation, putting an end to the argument before it can even start. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, Spock, but what the hell are you doing here? I thought Bones was gonna strand me somewhere for recovery time.”

 

“I assure you, Jim, at no time did Doctor McCoy express a desire to ‘strand you’ anywhere,” Spock says earnestly.

 

“Gee, thanks,” Bones grumbles.

 

“On the contrary,” Spock continues, ignoring Bones entirely, “He was concerned that you would be in need of company while you recovered outside the hospital. As I have never taken a day of leave, it was logical to use those days at this time in order to accompany you.”

 

“You – what? You’re using your vacation time to babysit me?” Jim asks blankly. That’s…he doesn’t know what to say about that. Other than _he really doesn’t need a babysitter._ “Wait, accompany me where?”

 

“I own a beach house on the Oregon coast,” Spock explains, motioning for Jim and Bones to follow him off the platform and ignoring Jim’s stare of surprise. “Before I was born, my mother would often accompany my father to Terra on his ambassadorial trips. She had a great aunt who lived on the Oregon coastline, and she often visited her while my father was busy. My mother became fond of spending time on the Oregon beaches, and she bought the house to commemorate the one year anniversary of her marriage to my father. My father recently transferred ownership of the house to me, although I have not had occasion to use it since. As my mother often found her trips to the house relaxing, it seemed a logical place for you to recover. It is also remote enough that there is only a 1.83 percent chance the media will find you here.”

 

Jim opens his mouth. And then closes it. Spock is…using up his personal vacation time and offering up his house for Jim.

 

It’s – weird.

 

“Thank you,” he finally manages, which is only after they’ve located the hovercar and climbed in. (Spock’s driving. Jim and Bones are in the backseats.) Jim’s still kind of in shock. “You didn’t have to do any of this, but – thanks.”

 

“You are welcome,” Spock says simply, which is another surprise. Jim’d half-expected a lecture on the illogic of gratitude.

 

They sit in silence for most of the car ride. It’s nearly dark, and Jim presses his face to the window, trying to see as much of Portland as he can before the light disappears. Spock passes by the city, which glitters on the banks of the Willamette River, before heading west towards the coastline. After about an hour Bones demands food, and they stop at a tiny diner by the side of the road. Jim, who hasn’t eaten anything since lunch, devours a hamburger so quickly that he gets hiccups. Spock merely sips water and raises a longsuffering eyebrow at the sight of the humans gobbling up greasy meat. 

 

From there it’s another hour to Spock’s beach house. Jim dozes against Bones’ shoulder, so it feels like only moments later that the car glides to a halt. He blinks and drags himself upright, peering out the window. It’s hard to tell in the dark, but Spock’s beach house looks like a classic two-story cottage. There’s a porch out front and a balcony on the second floor, and they’re so close to the ocean that Jim can hear the waves even though he hasn’t left the car yet.

 

“Why are the lights on?” he asks. Every single window glows merrily in the dark.

 

“It’s only 2300,” Bones says, stretching and opening the door on his side. “You didn’t think everyone was gonna turn in early on a Friday night, did you?”

 

Jim gapes at him, but Bones just lets himself out of the car and closes the door. Spock, who no doubt finds it illogical to sit in a stopped vehicle when they have arrived at their destination, exits without comment. After a moment of blank shock, Jim scrambles out after him.

 

“Who’s ‘everyone?’” he asks, catching up to them on the porch steps.

 

Spock opens his mouth, but never gets the chance to answer. The front door swings open and Uhura launches herself at Jim.

 

“Congratulations, Captain!” she says brightly, her dark hair obscuring Jim’s vision as she throws her arms around his ribs. “It’s about time you stopped lying around the hospital, you lazy-ass.” Jim, bewildered, hugs her back and tries to breathe around her iron grip.

 

“Thanks?” he gasps. “I – uh – didn’t expect to see you here.”

 

“Keptin!” a voice says excitedly. Holy crap, Uhura’s not the only one – is that _Chekov_? Uhura releases Jim from her hug, and he steps around her to see his navigator and his helmsman beaming in the doorway. “Eet is good to see you, sir!”

 

“Chekov, Sulu – hey,” Jim shakes their hands, utterly astonished. “Bones didn’t tell me you were here.”

 

“Ve are not going to be here wery long,” Chekov explains earnestly, stepping aside so that Jim can get through the front door. The entryway has paneled floors and light blue walls. “Doctor McCoy recommended we take medical leave now zat our debriefings are finished, and Commander Spock inwited us here. I am staying a week before wisiting my family in Russia.”

 

“I’m also here for a week,” Sulu says, grinning at Jim’s dumbfounded expression. “Then I’m going back to San Francisco. My mother wants me home for family dinners.”

 

“And Scotty’ll be here in the morning,” Uhura adds, closing the door once they’ve all piled into the entryway. “He couldn’t leave the _Enterprise_ without personally checking up on the repairs.”

 

Jim looks at them – his bridge crew, piled happily in the entryway of _Spock’s beach house_ – and feels momentarily overwhelmed.

 

“Well,” he says, trying to inject some levity in his voice, “When I heard ‘medical leave,’ I thought Bones was gonna lock me up in the middle of nowhere and tell me not to hurt myself. I didn’t realize this was a vacation.”

 

“Leave you alone?” Bones scoffs, but when Jim looks at him his eyes are gentle. “You’d be bored to tears in seconds. Can’t have that.”

 

“No,” Spock agrees seriously. “Doctor McCoy is under the impression that if we were to let you become bored, the universe would ‘suffer the goddamn consequences and wail like a baby Gorn left out in the cold.’” He pauses. “A most unusual comparison, as the universe is certainly not capable – ”

 

Jim can’t help it. He bursts into manly chuckles – _not_ giggles – and misses Bones’ loud retort. Sulu catches his eye and motions to the kitchen.

 

“Pavel made cookies, if you’re interested,” he says, and Chekov beams. Jim can’t turn down that expression, so he leads the way to the kitchen. It’s small but cozy, and Jim finds that he doesn’t mind the way it immediately fills with the chatter of his crew. This is…nice. He feels more relaxed than he has in weeks.

 

Sulu hands him a Russian tea cake and leans close.

 

“They’re rock hard,” he hisses in Jim’s ear. “Don’t tell Pavel that’s not what they’re supposed to taste like – this is how his grandmother made them, apparently.”

 

Jim grins and takes a bite – then tries valiantly to swallow and give Chekov a thumbs-up at the same time. Chekov blushes.

 

He can do this, Jim thinks, watching as Bones chokes on a cookie and ends up arguing with Spock about the proper way to eat finger foods. Jim’s tired – more tired than he should be after that nap in the car – but he’s not exhausted. He feels…better, actually. He knows at some point he’s going to need time alone, and he knows his nightmares haven’t stopped and there are _issues_ to sort out – but right now, surrounded by the people he’s starting to think of as his family, he’s…happy. It’s nice.

 

And maybe, Jim thinks, snorting as Spock samples a cookie and allows his eyebrows to fly into his hairline – maybe Archer was right. Time with his crew might be exactly what he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Long time, no update. Don't worry, guys - I love these characters and this story far too dearly to ever abandon it. But I am in college, and getting my Real Life in order takes precedence...so I can't guarantee fast updates. Thank you so much to all of you who read, comment, give kudos, bookmark, etc. You inspire me and make me happy and I love you all. <3


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The world is indeed full of peril, and in it there are many dark places; but still there is much that is fair, and though in all lands love is now mingled with grief, it grows perhaps the greater.”  
> ― J.R.R. Tolkien

The Oregon coast is nothing like some of the California beaches Jim’s been to. It’s bright out, but not sunny – the sky is grey with perpetual overcast. The sun burns dimly behind the clouds, and there isn’t a scrap of blue visible in the sky. The sand stretches out long and flat, a stark contrast to the massive rock formations and cliff faces which dot the coastline, and when it isn’t raining, Jim feels like he can see forever in each direction.

 

The Pacific Ocean is almost too cold to touch, and the waves roll rather than crash to the shore. At this time of the year, the beaches are nearly deserted.

 

Half the time, it’s exactly what Jim needs. The other half the time, it almost drives him nuts.

 

 

000000000000000

 

 

Scotty and Carol show up around 1400 the day after Jim arrives. Nyota sees the hovercar through the window and opens the front door before either of them can knock.

 

“Hi,” she whispers, a finger held to her lips as she lets them in. “What took you so long? I thought you were supposed to be here this morning.”

 

“Those idiots who think they’re fixin’ the _Enterprise_ – ”

 

“Scotty took a little extra convincing,” Carol interjects dryly, but also keeps her voice lowered. Scotty huffs unhappily.

 

“Why the quiet?” he asks in a whisper. “It sounds like a bloody funeral in here.”

 

Involuntarily, Nyota flinches. Scotty abruptly pales, the weight of recent memorials suddenly stifling the quiet entryway.

 

“Sorry,” he rasps out, barely audible. Nyota just shakes her head, privately resolving to speak to Leonard later. None of them are okay, not yet – but Scotty seems to be coping worse, on the whole, than most of them. This is the first time Nyota’s seen him since the memorial service at Starfleet that Jim attended.

 

“Jim and Leonard are still asleep,” Nyota explains, covering the uncomfortable moment by ushering Scotty and Carol into the sitting room. “They got in late, and then – well – I think Jim had a bad night.” If the muffled screams at three o’clock in the morning were anything to go on, anyway.

 

“Right.” Scotty’s still too pale; he looks even more uncomfortable at the news. “Well, I’m gonna unpack – kin I take your bag, Dr. Marcus?”

 

“No thanks,” Carol says, and Scotty doesn’t see her flinch at the use of her surname.

 

“Thank you for coming, Carol,” Nyota says gently as Scotty leaves the room. Carol blinks, then offers her a hesitant smile.

 

“Thank you for inviting me,” she says. “It – it really means a lot, that you all thought to include me, even after – ” she breaks off, then tries again. “After everything that my father did, I’d understand if none of you want to speak to me again.”

 

“You’re not your father,” Nyota says sharply. Hell knows that this crew, of all people, can understand that. “If it weren’t for you, we would have never been able to disarm the torpedoes. I don’t care what the press says. You wouldn’t be here if we didn’t trust you.”

 

Carol swallows and looks down at her hands.

 

“I think I might not work with weapons anymore,” she says. “For a while, at least. I’d…like to start over.”

 

Nyota nods, and listens to the sound of doors opening and closing upstairs. Jim and Leonard must be awake.

 

“You’re not the only one,” she says, half to herself. “I think we all need a second chance.”

 

 

000000000000000

 

 

“Jim.”

 

Jim blinks, startled. Spock is at his right elbow, although how he got there, Jim has no idea. Jim’s been sitting on the balcony watching the ocean for the past – well, actually, he’s not sure how long he’s been up here.

 

“Hi, Spock,” Jim says.

 

“You have been sitting in this spot for the past eighty-two point seven minutes,” Spock informs him. Jim has to crane his neck to get a good look at the Vulcan’s face. “I assume you have been reflecting on a matter of great importance.”

 

83 minutes? That’s like…Vulcan meditation or something. Jim shifts in the chair, trying to shake his sudden stiffness.

 

“Yeah,” he admits, “You could say that.”

 

They are both quiet for a moment, the crashing of the waves a soothing buffer.

 

“May I inquire as to the nature of your thoughts?” Spock asks finally. Jim wants to laugh at the stiffly-worded question, but a sigh comes out instead.

 

“Archer said I might get the _Enterprise_ back,” he confesses. There. He’s told someone.

 

Spock’s brows furrow. Which, as far as Jim’s concerned, isn’t exactly an encouraging sign.

 

“‘Might’?” Spock asks.

 

“I’m going on a special training program as soon as Bones gives the all-clear. Archer wants me to shadow command teams on different ships. The captains will submit evaluations, and then a second panel will decide if I get to keep my command.” He says it quickly, but it still sounds shameful. James Kirk, the screw-up captain who got his ship due to pure luck, screwed up so badly that he’s _finally_ going to learn from the people who actually know what they’re doing.

 

Spock abruptly moves to stand in front of Jim, blocking the view of the ocean. They’re not at eye level, because Jim’s sitting in the chair; he still has to crane his neck to see Spock’s face. Those Vulcan eyebrows are drawn ever so slightly together.

 

“There is logic in the Admirals’ course of action,” Spock states, clasping his hands behind his back. Jim swallows and tries to ignore the sudden hollow feeling in his chest.

 

“Yeah,” he croaks. “I think so too.”

 

“It is logical,” Spock repeats slowly, “But it is unnecessary. You have already proven yourself worthy of your title, Captain.”

 

Jim blinks in shock, the hollow feeling in his chest suddenly painful. How long has he wanted Spock’s loyalty? Jim had given up hope on their friendship after Niribu, and now – when he feels like he least deserves it – Spock calls him “Captain.” It doesn’t sound like a title. It sounds, unbelievably, like the respect he doesn’t deserve. 

 

 

000000000000000

 

 

It’s a well-known fact that James Kirk cares about his crew. The Admirals and the public might tear apart his command decisions, but no one can deny that Kirk’s heart is usually in the right place. He proved during the Nero fiasco that he was willing to go to absurd lengths if it gave him a shot at saving lives. The bridge crew of the _Enterprise_ now has proof that Kirk will sacrifice his own life for those under his command.

 

Some people think he has a hero complex; the tabloids attribute it to his father.

 

But the more time Carol spends around him, the less certain she is that Jim Kirk has a “hero complex.” She doesn’t know him nearly as well as the rest of the team, and maybe that’s why, as the days pass, she can see how uncomfortable he is in the house. Oh, he gets along with everyone, more or less – he has plenty of smiles (that don’t reach his eyes), and he’s perfectly willing to head into town or take walks on the beach. But he’s distant. He holds himself apart, always slipping away when he thinks he won’t be noticed. Doctor McCoy notices, and so does Spock – but so does Carol. She notices, because she’s doing the same thing.

 

Because she is so, so grateful to have been invited to this escape, but she’s not entirely sure why she’s here.

 

Despite Nyota’s assurances, Carol doesn’t think they trust her. How could they? Her father sent them into a trap with a madman, murdered their friends, and got Jim killed. Carol tried to stop him, but she was stupid, and too slow – she should’ve guessed that the _Vengeance_ could transport her through the _Enterprise_ ’s shields. A part of her thinks that if she’d been able to stay on board the _Enterprise_ in the first place, Jim would have never teamed up with Khan.

 

Of course she came when Spock offered her a space here. If it gets her away from San Francisco and lets her breathe through her own grief, that’s good – but she’s mainly here because she feels like she owes these people something. She saw how they worked together on the _Enterprise_. They have something special, and she doesn’t ever again want to be the person who fails them.

 

And that’s why she thinks Jim Kirk has guilt, not a “hero complex.” Sometimes, when he watches Chekov argue with Sulu and Scotty about Russia, or when he looks at Spock and McCoy as they whisper together with Nyota, Carol sees something in his eyes that she understands: debt.

 

Jim Kirk smiles and loves his crew, but Carol thinks that he’s seen more of the dark, unsavory corners of the universe than he lets on. And sometimes, when he looks at the people who care about him, she sees it in his face – the burning need to protect the people who haven’t, in his eyes, touched the things that he hates about himself. The knowledge that he can’t protect them, that he _hasn’t_ – and that, in a foreign and terrifying twist, they have protected _him._

 

Carol isn’t entirely sure why she’s here.

 

But she knows that Jim isn’t entirely sure why they’re here, either.

 

 

000000000000000

 

 

The first time Jim tries to get a tan, Bones almost has a heart attack. More than a month lying in a hospital is terrible for one’s complexion, and Jim’s tired of looking like a sick ghost. There’s not a lot of sun on the Oregon coastline – in fact, there’s practically none at all, and it’s usually too cold to wander out without a sweatshirt – but Jim doesn’t care. He slips out one afternoon in shorts and a t-shirt. It’s cloudy but bright outside, and warmer than normal. He walks along the shoreline for about fifteen minutes, far enough so he doesn’t have to worry about anyone from the house spotting him. Then he lies down in the sand and closes his eyes.

 

It’s oddly soothing.

 

Somehow, he falls asleep, which is the first thing he notices when he’s shaken rudely awake. Sleep is rare for him nowadays – he spends most of the night tossing and turning in a state of half-awareness before succumbing to nightmares. So he’s understandably upset to realize he’s been woken from the best rest he’s had in weeks.

 

“ _Are you out of your goddamn mind?_ ” Bones practically shrieks in his ear, grabbing Jim’s shoulders and hauling him forcibly inland. “The tide’s coming in, you idiot!”

 

Jim blinks and realizes yes, the tide has started to come in. His bare feet are wet from the waves. And it’s cold, too – much colder than it was when he fell asleep.

 

And speaking of sleep, he’s kind of pissed off by the shrieking.

 

“Don’t yell, Bones,” he complains, pulling his arm out of McCoy’s grasp.

 

“Don’t – ” McCoy’s eyes come close to bugging out of his head. “Are you serious? You nearly got yourself _drowned_ , you idiotic, ungrateful, goddamned – ”

 

“Please.” Jim rolls his eyes, and chooses not to notice that Bones is practically white. “The water would’ve woken me in another few minutes.”

 

“Oh it would’ve, would it?” Bones says acidly, and Jim almost wishes he’d start yelling again. “Well, if you’re not worried about the tide, maybe you should be worried about the fact that you’ve been out here for _hours_ in the _cold_ when you had your _entire immune system_ rebooted a month ago! It took me three goddamn tries to wake you. You’re exhausted, Jim, can’t you see that? You can’t keep wandering off to pretend like nothing’s wrong when – ”

 

“Maybe I _want_ to!” Jim snarls, voice dangerously loud. He takes a step back and tries to catch his breath. He feels trapped. “This vacation’s great and all, but ever since I woke up I haven’t had a minute to myself.”

 

“Because we’re worried about you, kid – ”

 

“I’m not a kid!” Jim yells. And then he repeats it, just because he can. “I’m not a kid. And I don’t need seven baby sitters to hold my hand and tell me what I can or can’t do! You didn’t have to bring them all here to watch me ‘rehabilitate.’”

 

“I didn’t force them here,” Bones says angrily, jerking his thumb at Spock’s house in the distance. “And believe it or not, this isn’t about you. They chose to use their vacation days and spend time here. Do you know how much we’re still needed at headquarters? Whatever they’re here for is important to them, really important to them, so don’t you dare turn this around and blame whatever problems you’ve got on their choices – ”

 

“It’s not them I’m talking about!” Jim snarls, which – not true, but Bones is here, and he just needs _someone_ to yell at. “It’s _you._ Every five seconds it’s ‘you’re still recovering, Jim’ and ‘take it easy, kid’, and ‘let me do that for you’ and _I am so sick of it!_ I didn’t ask for a mother hen!”

 

“I’m your doctor, dammit!”

 

“I KNOW!” Jim has no idea why he’s so angry. “You raised me from the fucking dead and now you own my life. I get it. Now leave me the hell alone, _Doctor McCoy_.”

 

He storms off without waiting for a reply, his pulse hammering in his head. He doesn’t know why he’s so furious or why he can’t stand the sight of his CMO and best friend. He just knows that if he tries to talk to anyone right now, he’ll end up sending his fist through their nose.

 

He makes it back to the house in record time. There’s no sign that Bones followed him. Irrationally, that makes Jim even angrier. He stalks up to his temporary bedroom without saying a word to anyone and locks his door. He doesn’t come down for dinner that night, and uncharacteristically, Bones doesn’t come to his room and force him to eat. 

 

 

000000000000000

 

 

As it turns out, Sulu and Chekov are serious art enthusiasts. 

 

“Da, I vas raised in Russia!” Chekov says in the car. He, Sulu, Jim, Nyota, and Spock are headed into town to visit the local art galleries. “I practically grew up in ze theater. My mama often took us to the ballet, and in school there vere often trips to galleries.”

 

“San Francisco native,” Sulu says with a grin, taking his eyes off the road to glance at Jim through the rearview mirror. “Can’t live there without visiting a few museums or seeing some shows.”

 

Jim’s not big on art – at least, he doesn’t think so. He had zero exposure to it in Riverside, and after nearly starving to death on Tarsus, the last thing he wanted to do was visit an art museum. But Spock and Uhura seem interested, and it’s nice to get out of the house.

 

The nearest town is about twenty minutes away. It’s small but quaint. The compact wooden buildings have windchimes and feathers in the windows, and faded beach murals are splashed across the sides. Across the street, there’s a man tapping on a weird string instrument that Jim’s never seen before. The music isn’t the sort of thing he goes for – he’s more about strong beats and passionate lyrics, music found in clubs – but he’s struck by the skill of the performer all the same.

 

“What is that?” he asks aloud as Uhura leads them into one of the glass art galleries. Spock glances across the street before replying.

 

“It is called a hammered dulcimer,” Spock informs him, because of course he knows everything. “It is a Celtic instrument that I read about when I first moved to Starfleet Academy as part of my preparation for residence on Earth. This is, however, the first time I have ever heard one played live.”

 

Jim shakes his head in disbelief – _only Spock_ would know random shit like that off the top of his head – and follows him into the art gallery.

 

They visit four galleries over the course of the afternoon. Jim doesn’t particularly care for the blown glass exhibits, although Uhura and Chekov are entranced by the delicate seashells and fish that hang from the ceiling. Jim’s more impressed by the metal sculpture gallery, but he and Sulu get themselves kicked out when they spin one of the interactive sculptures around too many times. All of them have to practically drag Spock away from the paintings in the third gallery, and at the last one, Uhura falls in love with a bracelet on display in the gift shop. It’s not overly expensive, but Spock seems oblivious.

 

“Aren’t you going to buy that for her?” Jim whispers, tugging Spock aside once Uhura wanders off. Spock raises an eyebrow quizzically.

 

“Is there an occasion approaching on which it would be appropriate to present Nyota with a gift?” he asks. Jim shakes his head.

 

“There doesn’t have to be an occasion, Spock,” he explains. “But women are usually flattered when their boyfriend buys them gifts, especially if it’s for no reason at all. Sometimes you can do it just to show that you care.”

 

Spock gives him a strange look, like he doesn’t buy that argument. Jim looks away.

 

“Nyota already knows that I care for her,” Spock says slowly, and Jim gives it up as a lost cause. He approaches the counter himself and purchases the bracelet. Once it’s wrapped, he heads back to Spock, whose eyebrows are in his hairline.

 

“Give it to her,” Jim says firmly, handing Spock the box. Spock hesitates, then pockets the bracelet.

 

“I now owe you a sum of – ”

 

“Forget it,” Jim says with a half-smile. “You’re letting me stay in your house, remember?”

 

Spock tilts his head, but says nothing. He has already told Jim that he does not expect payment for the house, that he’s doing this as a favor for all of them. Jim doesn’t know how to repay that kind of generosity. Somehow, though, his uncertainty has translated into him buying bracelets for Spock to give Nyota.

 

They’re all hungry when they leave the last gallery, and since Bones isn’t with them, they end up having ice cream for dinner. Jim finds himself sitting on a bench between Chekov and Spock, watching the sun set as he licks chocolate ice cream off his fingers. His digestive system still has trouble handling rich foods, so he has to give the last of his cone to Chekov, who practically inhales it. Jim leans back against the bench, watching the sun slowly paint the sky orange.

 

“Why’d we visit all those galleries?” Sulu jokes with a yawn. “This is the best thing we’ve seen all day.”

 

“Da, it is wery pretty,” Chekov agrees. There’s a brief pause. Then: “Did you know that ze Russians inwented ice cream?”

 

Jim snorts. Sulu quietly facepalms as Spock immediately protests, and the ensuing argument is the only thing they hear the entire ride back to the house.

 

 

000000000000000

 

 

When Jim wanders into the sitting room at four o’clock in the morning, the last thing he expects is to literally stumble over Scotty in the dark.

 

“ _Jesus_ Christ,” Jim squeaks, his heart thundering in his chest. He squints and barely discerns a dark form huddled on the floor. “Scotty? What the hell?”  


“Sorry Jim,” Scotty’s voice slurs from the dark, and Jim realizes that he’s drunk. “Didn’ exspect you ta be here.”

 

“Yeah, well…” Jim fumbles for the lamp and finally flicks it on, “Sleep’s overrated.”

 

Scotty squints up at him, wincing against the light. He’s still wearing his clothes from the previous day, and there are empty bottles scattered around him.

 

“Are you okay?” Jim asks, because yeah, Scotty drinks just as much as Bones (which is a lot), but he doesn’t usually look so despondent when he does.

 

“I’m shorry, Jim,” Scotty says.

 

“What?”

 

“I’m shorry,” Scotty repeats. “I shouldn’a forced ya to fire me.”

 

Jim stares at him for a long moment.

 

“What…why are you apologizing? You were right about the torpedoes, and you were the one who saved our asses out there.” It hurts to admit it, but Jim’s done ignoring his own mistakes. “If anything, I owe _you_ an apology.”

 

“Ya were an asshole,” Scotty agrees. “Not gonna lie ‘bout that. But ye were the Captain, an’ I shouldn’a overstepped my place.”

 

Jim huffs a sigh, a familiar ache opening up behind his chest. He carefully sinks down to sit beside Scotty on the floor.

 

“Well,” he says, “I was a shitty captain who wouldn’t listen to his crew. So I don’t blame you for quitting.”

 

“An’ I’m a shitty friend,” Scotty counters. “We’re ‘bout even.”

 

Jim looks at him in disbelief.

 

“You infiltrated a giant warship for me when you had every right to tell me to fuck off. What part of that makes you a shitty friend?”

 

“The part when I let you knock me out and get yerself killed in the warp core,” Scotty says darkly. Jim flinches, involuntarily remembering the sensation of his fist against Scotty’s skull. He knew Scotty would suffer the consequences of that action – but at the time, survivor’s guilt had seemed like a better option than death. Jim sighs and runs a hand wearily through his hair.

 

“Someone had to do it,” he mutters. “And it sure as hell wasn’t going to be you.”

 

“It shoulda been me,” Scotty says sharply, and Jim starts a little at the anger in his tone. “I’m the Chief Bloody Engineer. I know the warp core inside n’ out, but I couldn’ – ah, hell.” Scotty scrubs his face with the palm of one hand. “I messed up. I shoulda volunteered from the start, but instead I froze and left you ta do it, and I’m shorry, Jim. I’m so sorry.”

 

Jim just shakes his head.

 

“You’re not the captain, Scotty,” he says. “You don’t know how to make the life or death decisions that I have to make, because that’s not what you’re trained for. Your job was to fix the _Enterprise_. Mine was to keep her safe.”

 

“Ya know,” Scotty says after a moment, “Yer a lot of things, Jim Kirk. But a shitty captain’s not one of ‘em.”

 

“Right.” Jim sighs, and before he can stop himself: “Tell that to the people who died because I was in that chair.”

 

“Listen here, laddie,” Scotty says sharply, and he turns slightly unfocused eyes on Jim. “You’re responsible fer your crew – jus’ like how the Admirals’re responshible for the ships they send out there an’ how a mother’s responsible for her kids. Doesn’t mean that their deaths are your _fault_.”

 

Jim swallows hard, not trusting his voice.

 

“If ye take the blame, you’ll just be fighting a losin’ battle with yourself,” Scotty says fiercely. “The dead can’t forgive the living, Jim. You’ve got to do it for them.”

 

 

000000000000000

 

 

It comes out of nowhere. One minute, Jim’s sitting on the balcony in the early morning, watching the ocean – the next, he has Pike’s words running through his head, words he heard a long time ago in a coffee shop back at the Academy.

_You mean to tell me you’ve been in San Francisco for three months and you haven’t once taken a trip to the beach? Are you living in a hole? Are you – god forbid – studying?_

_Jim had smirked dangerously across the table at Pike._

_I’ve been making friends with the ladies, he’d said offhandedly, and Pike had rolled his eyes._

_You shouldn’t tell your adviser that, Kirk._

_Blank surprise, quickly masked._

_You want to be my adviser? The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them._

_Of course I do. If you’ll deign to let me, that is._

Jim swallows against a sudden lump in his throat. He’d been sleeping around, yes, but not as much as his fledgling reputation had begun to imply. The truth was that at first, he’d been too overwhelmed, too _excited_ by San Francisco to even think about taking a beach trip. Those first months at the Academy weren’t his best. He’d both hated it and loved it. Hated it because aside from Bones, people just didn’t seem to _get it_ , that life was bigger and darker than preppy Academy classes and drinks in clubs – loved it because he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt challenged, had never been able to walk outside and immerse himself in the throbbing diversity of a city.

 

He couldn’t remember a time when an adult believed in him – when an adult was genuinely interested in what he chose to do with his life, took him to coffee shops, and offered to be his mentor.

 

Jim sinks down into his chair, breath catching against the sudden, deep ache in his chest. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. Pike’s been dead for almost two months. Why does it feel like only _now_ he understands that his adviser – his friend – won’t take him to a coffee shop again? The Admiral won’t find him drunk at a bar. He won’t call Jim on his bullshit and tell him it’ll still be okay.

 

Pike’s just – gone.

 

And just like that, something changes. Jim presses a hand to his mouth, catching a hitched breath as tears well up behind his eyes. Pike will never again listen to Jim’s rants about life on the _Enterprise_ – he’ll never be there to defend him against Starfleet politics – he can’t even offer Jim a smile. Not anymore.

 

Jim remembers Pike shackled to a slab on the _Narada_ , the intense fear that he was too injured to survive in a medical bay fast running out of supplies. The man made it through all of that, and it only took one explosion to erase an entire year of struggle and recovery.

 

Jim will never get to say he’s sorry. He’ll never get to say thank you, to tell Pike that he’d been right: Jim wasn’t ready for the captaincy. Jim needed someone to guide him through the past year, but he’d been too proud to realize it. 

 

He knows better now. He understands that he needs – even wants – someone to learn from. But that person is forever out of his reach.

 

 

000000000000000

 

 

For the first time, it’s not Jim’s screams that wake up most of the house at three in the morning.

 

Jim’s out of bed and into the hallway before he’s fully awake, looking around wildly for the source of the noise. Half of his mind is teetering on an edge – the ship’s in danger, Khan’s gotten loose, or maybe –

 

“Jim,” Nyota’s voice snaps him to full awareness. She’s running towards him in her dressing gown.

 

“I – it’s – Bones?” Jim stutters, and Nyota immediately pushes past him into Leonard’s room. The screaming stops. Down the hall, Carol pokes her head out just as Spock appears at the top of the stairs.

 

“Do you need help?” Carol asks, and Jim doesn’t see judgment in her eyes, only concern.

 

“I…” Jim falters. “It’s not me. It’s Bones.” At their identical motions forward, Jim raises his hand. “No, don’t. I’ll talk to him, I – I owe him an apology.” Swallowing, he turns his back on them and pushes open the door to Leonard’s room.

 

Nyota’s standing at the side of the bed, a half-empty glass of water in her hand. Bones is sitting up with both hands tangled in his hair, his elbows resting on his knees.

 

“I’m going to refill this for you,” Nyota says gently to Leonard, glancing at Jim in the doorway. She presses close to Jim on her way out. “Whatever’s going on between you two, fix it,” she whispers in his ear. “This has gone on long enough.”

 

Jim barely manages to nod. When she leaves, there’s a moment of awkward silence in which Bones doesn’t look at him. Jim takes a steadying breath and walks over, sitting carefully at the end of the bed. This close, he can see that Leonard’s hands are trembling slightly, and the sight causes something funny to twist in Jim’s stomach.

 

“You know,” Jim says after a moment – Bones still doesn’t look at him, but he’s listening: “I don’t hate you. You were the first real friend I ever had, and that means – that means I can’t hate you. But you’re a doctor and your whole life is about saving people, and I guess…I guess that makes me jealous. Because I’m a hell of a lot worse at saving people than you are. But that doesn’t mean I hate you. It – it’s more like I hate _myself_ , because you saved my crew and you saved me when I couldn’t, when I had to _die_ just to keep the _Enterprise_ in the air, and I shouldn’t deserve – ” Jim’s voice cracks, because Bones still hasn’t looked at him, “ – I shouldn’t deserve you.”

 

“You’re a moron.”

 

Bones finally looks up, and Jim realizes with some shock that they both have tears in their eyes.

 

“I’m sorry,” Jim chokes. With a huff, Bones crawls across the bed and folds Jim into a hug.

 

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for, kid. Not really,” Bones says into his ear. “But I forgive you anyway.”

 

And that’s really the crux of it, Jim thinks, burying his face into Bones’s shoulder even as his breath hitches. When things fall to pieces and people are left to deal with the twisted aftermath of their own crucibles, there’s still forgiveness. And maybe that’s enough.

 

 

000000000000000

 

 

“Bones?” Jim knocks once on the bedroom door before letting himself in, “Have you seen my –”

 

He stops short. Bones freezes, one hand suspended over the cage.

 

“Uh,” Jim says blankly. “Since when have you had a pet tribble?”

 

Bone sighs and finishes dumping a handful of grain into the cage perched on his dresser. Inside, the tribble makes an unidentifiable noise and starts to chew on the food.

 

“It’s not my tribble,” Bones mutters grumpily. “It’s Spock’s, but he guilted me into taking care of it. I swear it’s his version of payment for letting us use his house.”

 

“Hang on.” Jim needs a second to process this. “ _Spock_ has a pet tribble?”

 

“Not exactly.” Bones lets out a long breath. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell ya…”

 

Jim listens while Leonard explains about tribbles that come back to life as pseudo-zombies. The doctor clearly tries to keep his tone light and the story straightforward, but Jim gets the subtext. He tries hard not to think about the fact that if it weren’t for a random injection into a dead ball of fluff, he’d be in a coffin right now.

 

“Okay,” Jim says with a swallow once Bones stops talking. He feels a little queasy. Not good. “Okay, so a tribble saved my life. Awesome. We have, like, an _Enterprise_ mascot now. What’s its name?”

 

“What?” Bones looks at him incredulously.

 

“Its name,” Jim insists. “It saved my life, it needs a name.”

 

“ _I_ saved your life, you crazy moron!”

 

“Fluffy?” Jim says, considering the tribble with his head tilted to the side. “Eh, not cool enough. Floppy? Chewbacca?”

 

“You’re insane.”

 

Jim sticks his tongue out at Bones, then goes off in search of someone who will take him seriously.

 

“Uhura, Carol! I need a name for the tribble!”

 

“What?”

 

“A name! Come on, you guys have got to have better ideas than Bones.”

 

A big mistake, asking bored girls to come up with a pet name. Before Jim knows it, they’ve amassed a list of baby names from the internet.

 

“What about Gregory?”

 

“No, no, it needs something distinguished. Like Lancelot or Zachary or…oh, what about Benedict?”

 

“Too many syllables.”

 

“Are you kidding me?” Jim says incredulously. “Syllables? Really? And what if it’s a girl?”

 

“Silas is a good name.”

 

“But Jim’s right, what if it _is_ a girl? What about…Elizabeth? Mallory?”

 

“No, that’s all wrong…”

 

“I want something cute,” Jim pouts. “Like Bobble or Bubbles. Or – oh, wait, name it after me! It can be Kirk the tribble! Kirkleton!”

 

“NO,” both girls yell. Jim cowers.

 

At that moment, Spock walks into the sitting room.

 

“Spock!” Jim says in relief. “Help me out here. We need a name for the tribble.”

 

Spock’s eyebrows shoot into his hairline.

 

“Let’s call it Spero!” Nyota and Carol squeal. Jim hits his head on the coffee table; Spock slowly edges towards the kitchen.

 

“Oh no!” Jim points a finger at him accusingly. “Get back here! I need a name that isn’t terrible, quick! Ha ha, Terrible Tribble – that’s a good one.”

 

“Jim,” Spock says carefully, “It is illogical to name the tribble when it already has a perfectly functional scientific name, _polygeminus grex_. You may refer to it as such in the future if you so desire.” And with that, the coward escapes into the kitchen.

 

“ _Polygeminus grex_ ,” Jim mutters in disbelief. “Oh wait, hey! _Grex._ We can call it Grexy! Thanks, Spock!”

 

 

000000000000000

 

 

“We’re going to die.”

 

“Oh relax, Leonard,” Carol says, rolling her eyes behind his back. Nyota sees it and suppresses a giggle.

 

“No, I’m serious. We’re all doomed.”

 

“Is ze Keptin weally so terrible in ze kitchen?” Chekov asks, blue eyes wide with apprehension.

 

“I heard he once set fire to the Academy dorm while trying to make tea?” Sulu asks, a giant grin on his face. Leonard lets out a groan.

 

“Tea!” he says, waving a hand hopelessly in the air. “He can’t even make tea!”

 

“Well…Scotty’s not a _terrible_ cook,” Nyota tries, but Chekov scoffs.

 

“Nyet, he is Scottish, he cannot make anything except haggis. Now ze Russians, zey know how to cook.”

 

“I’m not sure most people go to Russia for the food, kid,” Bones points out dryly.

 

“Well, okay, so maybe one of us could go in and just – you know – help them,” Sulu suggests, effectively preventing another argument about the contributions of Russia to the world. Leonard nods vigorously.

 

“Oh hell, yes. But I’m not doing it.”

 

“Jim specifically instructed me to ensure that no such help was rendered,” Spock speaks up from his position in front of the kitchen door, which is securely locked. “It is my understanding that this would ruin the concept of a ‘surprise dinner.’”

 

“Of course Jim got you involved,” McCoy growls, throwing up his hands. “Alright, Spock, but that means you get to be the first one to taste whatever vile – ”

 

A sudden yelp from the kitchen interrupts him, and the door abruptly crashes open as Jim skids out, clutching his right hand. At the same moment, the smoke detector goes off.

 

“Sorry ‘bout that!” Scotty shouts over the chaos, fanning at the ceiling with an oven mitt. “There’s no fire, it’s all fine!”

 

“The copious plumes of smoke would suggest otherwise,” Spock observes, even as he rushes into the kitchen to put out the fire on the stove. “I am beginning to understand your concern, Doctor.”

 

But for once, Leonard isn’t paying attention.

 

“Jim, let me see,” he says quietly, stepping slowly towards Jim, who is standing frozen in the middle of the room. Jim’s staring at his right hand, which is clasped tightly in his left, and his breathing isn’t steady. Nyota takes one glance at the scene and discreetly yanks Chekov and Sulu into the kitchen.

 

“Jim?” Leonard repeats worriedly.

 

“Uh,” Jim’s voice comes out hoarse. He blinks and shakes his head, as though trying to get his bearings. “Bones. I’m fine, it’s not – it’s not bad. I just burned it.”

 

“Let me see it,” Bones repeats, holding out his hand. Jim stares at him.

 

“What?”

 

“Your hand,” Bones says gently. “I just want to make sure you don’t need a dermal regenerator.”

 

Wordlessly, Jim unclenches his left hand and holds out his right one to Bones. He was right – it isn’t a bad burn, barely enough to blister. But it has to hurt. All burns hurt, no matter how minor – and Leonard bets that Jim hasn’t felt this particular kind of pain since he lay dying inside the _Enterprise_ ’s warp core.

 

“I’ve got a burn patch in my first aid kit upstairs,” Leonard says, releasing Jim’s hand. In a few minutes, the hand is clean and bandaged, but Jim still hasn’t said a word. Leonard takes a deep breath. “Do you need a minute alone?” he asks quietly.

 

For a second, Jim doesn’t say anything. Then, slowly, he shakes his head.

 

“No,” he says. “No, I’m okay.” He offers Bones a small smile. “But I think we might have to order pizza for dinner.”

 

 

000000000000000

 

 

In hindsight, letting Uhura, Carol, and Scotty get drunk while everyone else goes out for dessert isn’t the best idea. It’s kind of Jim’s fault, he supposes. He has the tolerance of a twelve-year-old right now, so Bones volunteers to buy him dessert instead, and Spock joins them. Since the girls were already slightly tipsy from drinking at dinner, Scotty opted to stay behind with them and get drunk. By the time Jim comes back, the three are completely sloshed.

 

“Oi, Captain!” Scotty says cheerfully when Jim walks into the sitting room. “Hope ye don’t mind, but we borrowed one o’your shirts.”

 

Jim blinks.

 

Uhura and Carol are cuddling the tribble, which is wrapped up in one of Jim’s t-shirts.

 

“Shee?” Uhura giggles with a slur, holding the tribble up. “It looks better now.”

 

“Less zombie,” Carol agrees earnestly.

 

“It’s Shexy Grexy!”

 

Jim retreats as fast as he can, only to nearly get run over by Bones.

 

“ _Put Grexy –_ I mean the tribble, _goddammit_ – down right now! How many goddamn times do I have to tell you that tribbles are _not pets_? It’s a scientific specimen, and – ”

 

Spock walks through the front door the moment Bones starts shouting. He casts a perplexed look at Jim.

 

“Ever thought about looking more like a tribble, Spock?” Jim asks with an evil grin. “Apparently Nyota thinks it’s sexy.”

 

 

000000000000000

 

 

There’s no way to make a long-distance call from Spock’s house. At least, that’s what Bones told Jim when they first arrived, and that’s apparently what the Admirals at headquarters believe as well. But Jim talks to Nyota, and after using his best puppy dog eyes (and after buying her a chocolate muffin), he manages to get a call to New Vulcan.

 

“Hi, Old Man,” Jim says with a grin when the Ambassador’s face appears on his screen. Other Spock actually _smiles_ in response, which kind of freaks Jim out.

 

“Jim,” the Ambassador says. “I am exceptionally gratified to hear from you.”

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner,” Jim says, and yeah, he does feel guilty about that. “It’s been kind of – I needed some time. To think.” He looks at other Spock. “I think you of all people understand what I mean.”

 

The Ambassador tilts his head, his expression suddenly weary.

 

“Khan’s blood did not revive me from the dead,” he states. Jim opens his mouth, but other Spock cuts him off. “I do not wish to elaborate on how or why I survived my experience. It was a trying time for me, certainly. But it placed a far greater burden on those who I called my friends.”

 

“Right.” Jim swallows. “Yeah, I – I suspected that it was you, in your timeline.” He points vaguely at his head. “Every once in a while I get a sort of – intuition – about things. I think it’s left over from the meld on Delta Vega.”

 

Other Spock looks at him gravely.

 

“It was not my intention to leave you with memories from outside your own timeline,” he says. “If you so desire, such memories may be erased with the help of a Vulcan healer.”

 

“No, it’s fine, they’re not memories,” Jim says hastily. “More like…feelings. I can’t explain it. Like when the warp core crashed, I thought – I just thought that Spock, my Spock, might try to fix it. And I knew I couldn’t let that happen.”

 

“A fascinating reversal of roles,” the Ambassador says, tilting his head.

 

“Yeah, and that’s…kind of what I wanted to talk to you about,” Jim says nervously. Other Spock raises an eyebrow, silently asking him to continue. “You know what’s like, to – to die. And then to come back and understand what your death means to people. I’m not sure I – ” he falters. “I’m not sure I like it.”

 

“It is humbling,” the Ambassador says slowly, “To realize your own significance to another sentient being. I believe that I, like you, did not truly comprehend my own relationships until they were taken from me.”

 

“I know what people mean to me,” Jim says. “I just – I didn’t know what I meant to other people.”

 

The Ambassador nods, his eyes far away.

 

“It is a tremendous gift,” he says quietly. “And it is an awareness you will carry with you for the rest of your life.”

 

 

000000000000000

 

 

Jim knows that Vulcans don’t need to sleep as much as humans, but it’s still a little bit of a surprise when he comes downstairs at six in the morning and finds Spock standing on the back porch, watching the ocean. It’s cold out, but Spock’s left the door to the sitting room open, and he’s not even wearing a sweater.

 

“Hey,” Jim says, stepping onto the porch. He nearly curses as his feet touch the cold wooden planks. “Uh, it’s freezing. What are you doing out here?”

 

Spock turns to face him, one eyebrow raised in his default you-humans-are-perplexing expression. “It is not freezing, Jim. As for what I am doing…” he hesitates for a fraction of a second. “I believe humans would say that I am ‘thinking.’”

 

“Not meditating?” Jim asks, moving to lean against the railing.

 

Spock remains silent. He’s silent for so long that Jim loses all feeling in his toes, which is going to hurt later. Jim’s now keenly aware that he’s intruded on the Vulcan’s solitude, and he’s just about to make his excuses and retreat inside when Spock finally speaks.

 

“I have been unable to achieve a proper state of meditation since the encounter with Khan.”

 

Jim blinks.

 

“…Oh,” he says. Then he blinks again, because Spock never admits to anything other than pure logic, but this sounds…like he might be asking for help. “Well, that really sucks.”

 

 _Stupid._ Jim immediately regrets that his mouth isn’t connected to his brain. He’s not cut out for this. Why would an intelligent half-Vulcan think it a good idea to ask _him_ for emotional advice?

 

“It does not ‘suck,’” Spock says severely, but the way he tilts his head towards Jim doesn’t seem hostile. “It is, however, most inconvenient.”

 

Jim stares at him for a second. Then he lets out a snort of laughter.

 

“Oh my god, Spock, I _know_ you know that was just an expression. But seriously – ” he sobers, “I’m – I don’t know much about meditation, but…can I do anything to help?”

 

“You have helped,” Spock says quietly.

 

“I have?”

 

“Affirmative. By admitting to your own difficulties in your recovery, I – you have given me evidence which suggests that it is not a weakness to acknowledge grief in the wake of recent loss.”

 

Jim stares at Spock’s profile, utterly taken aback.

 

“Uh…” he trips over his words with a nervous laugh. “I never thought I’d hear _that_ from anyone. Least of all you. I am really, really not the best role model for dealing with mental trauma.”

 

“I no longer think there is a ‘role model’ for the healing of one’s mental wounds,” Spock says. To anyone else he might sound clinical, but he turns his head to meet Jim’s eyes, and Jim sees a vulnerability there that Spock has never shown him before. “I formerly thought there was only one way for a Vulcan to process emotion. Taking recent events into account, I am no longer certain that this is the case.”

 

Jim immediately understands that Spock isn’t just referring to Khan. He means his mother and the destruction of his people, too.

 

“Yeah?” Jim swallows, and absently notes that the sky has started to lighten. “What’s your new theory?”

 

“That grief and its accompanying emotions are deeply personal,” Spock says, “But that they are endurable when shared with friends.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, I did it. This chapter was a monster. Hopefully it turned out okay? Thank you all so much for your patience. RL got crazy – school, flood, disease, dance, ETC. – but Spring Break is a marvelous thing.
> 
> Many thanks to those of you who suggested tribble names, and special shout out to n1h1l4dr3m for the final idea! 
> 
> Also, if any of you are wondering what a hammered dulcimer sounds like, I first heard it played by this man in Central Park: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MJDuholrvok


End file.
